


The Common Tongue

by kittimau



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Cullen Rutherford, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, POV Cullen Rutherford, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, mostly canon compliant with minor changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: Chaos has a way of bringing people together.Cullen Rutherford is given the opportunity of a lifetime - a cause he can believe in, a way to atone. A new life, and perhaps, even love? Unfortunately, nothing worth having comes easy.Elaria Lavellan left her clan seeking adventure and freedom, a way to prove herself. Suddenly, the fate of the world rests upon her shoulders and she is torn between war, duty, family, and following her heart."'...it’s good to have something more to live for, amidst all this madness. People need a reason to wake up and fight during the best of times. Now, we need it even more.'"Author's Note:NSFW chapters labeled with a *Additional tags/cws included in chapter summaries!
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Rylen, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Rylen, Isabela/Male Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 119
Kudos: 109





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Announcement:
> 
> This work is on hiatus. I'm not sure when I will come back to it. As everyone knows, 2020 has been a particularly rough year... I still love these characters and this story, but life has a way of taking up a lot of my spoons and the muse is a fickle beast.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who gave kudos, comments, and bookmarked this work, from the bottom of my heart. It meant a whole heckuva lot to see so many people enjoy my first creative writing project and fanfiction in nearly_ fifteen years. _
> 
> If/when I do come back to it, it will likely be with the purpose of a hefty overhaul as my own writing style has changed a bit since I began writing it.
> 
> Thank you all for your kindness and patience. ❤

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**  
There will be some serious topics broached here, including  
_Addiction/Withdrawal  
PTSD symptoms  
Suicidal Thoughts (briefly implied)_

_Through blinding mist, I climb_

_ A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base _

_ Endlessly beneath my feet _

_ The Maker is the rock to which I cling. _

_ I cannot see the path. _

_ Perhaps there is only abyss. _

_ Trembling, I step forward, _

_ In darkness enveloped… _

The Chant of Light, Canticle of Trials 1:12-13

The Waking Sea. Never had Cullen hated a single geographic body more. Never had he vomited so much in his life. He sat, arms curled around raised knees, head hung between them, a thick woolen blanket smelling of salt and fish wrapped around his shoulders. The constant throbbing migraine piercing his temples and inability to keep any food down or sleep for the last few days left him weak and irritable.

“Here. Drink.”

He raised his head. A hand jutted in front of his face, strong and calloused, gripping a small glass vial. He reached for it with one violently trembling hand. Cassandra watched him uncork the potion and raise it to his lips. Cool liquid, slightly minty and bitter, slid down a throat made sore and raw from bile. It did little to dispel his most urgent pains but eased the headache and nausea somewhat.

“Thank you,” he rasped. She nodded, satisfied, and sat on the sea-slicked deck to his right. Close enough, but not too close to cause either of them discomfort.

“It is not far now,” she said, gazing out at the open water. The Waking Sea was not a peaceful one. It churned constantly, angry and grey. Its shorelines had been battered over the centuries into sharp, irregular headlands with difficult to navigate, oft deadly, bays. The beaches were more rock than sand, grey, bleary, and subject to frequent storms.

“Thank the Maker.”

“Will you still not tell me why you remain here?”

He paled, dropped his head between his legs and stared into the recently emptied but still-wet, vile-smelling bucket below. “I… I would rather not speak of it.”

He’d refused from the start, much to Cassandra’s chagrin, to go below deck to his small, dark, claustrophobic cabin. He holed up in a corner by the forecastle instead, huddled close to the railing. He learned the hard way that first night not to vomit into the wind. Afterward, one of the deckhands provided the bucket – partly out of pity, and partly the desire not to clean up after him again.

Cassandra recognized the signs immediately, the other symptoms that had nothing at all to do with seasickness. Symptoms that made the crossing infinitely worse than the first he’d experienced nearly a decade prior. Her Seeker training made clear to her what others might miss.

He’d been through withdrawal once before. Not by choice, not like this time. But the similarity brought back other feelings, memories from that time. Nightmares were returning with renewed vigor. Dreams and emotions that lyrium had dulled over the years now hit with overwhelming force. The paranoia, the terror. The sensation of being caged. Images of blood-spattered walls, dismembered limbs. The mutated bodies of abominations, the faces of his brethren as they’d met their deaths. Their screams. The demons taunting him, tempting him, begging him to let go, to let them in.

He’d expected the cravings. He’d expected discomfort, even pain. This was something else, entirely. Reliving the trauma of his youth was worse than any physical pain he’d ever endured, and several times throughout the journey he’d had half a mind to jump overboard. Not that he entertained that thought with much seriousness; it was a fleeting feeling, but when it did come, it was intense.

However, Cassandra showed no judgement, no disgust. She said she supported his decision, respected the choice to stop taking lyrium. He forced her to promise him, then. Her agreement was hesitant, but she gave it nonetheless. If it became too much, if he wavered in his duties, she would find a suitable replacement.

He didn’t deserve her faith or this opportunity. But Maker, he was desperate. This was his chance to leave that life behind, the life in Kirkwall he’d grown to despise. And so he took it, clung to it with all his remaining strength. He would make it work, or die trying. He would endure.

She sighed beside him. Suddenly, her hand was on his shoulder. He flinched but resisted the shudder that crept up his spine. Not that her touch was entirely unwanted or unpleasant, just unexpected.

She squeezed gently, a pleasurable pressure that kneaded into his tense trapezius muscle. He groaned, then sucked in his breath. Did she hear? He lifted his head, turned it to look at her. Her frown was not the annoyed, nearly hate-filled one she gave Hawke’s friend Varric. Rather, she looked perturbed. Worried.

“Cullen…” she paused, and then a small, tender smile graced her perfect bow-shaped lips. “It’s alright. Just know that I am here.”

She smiled as though such action were a rare thing, an exercise in stretching unused muscles. It softened her, gave him a brief window to the sweet, if awkward, interior behind layers of unyielding stone she built up around herself. The woman was stubborn, unrelenting. Honestly, they were a lot alike. Perhaps that was why they’d formed such a fast, easy camaraderie. Why he trusted her when he did so few others.

“We will take a few extra days in the city to recruit and gather some supplies. Leliana reserved rooms at an inn. There, you can… recover. There is still time before the Conclave, though not much.”

“I… thank you, Cassandra.” He smiled weakly, patted her hand with his, and she released her grip. She rested back against the heavy crate tethered to the deck behind them, his limited shelter in this open space, and closed her eyes. He did the same, dozed briefly, and awoke to men shouting. They’d reached the port in Jader.

Cullen stood, wobbled a bit, his legs shaky, stiff and aching from the prolonged sitting. He gripped the ship’s rail, knuckles white, sweat-soaked tunic clinging to pale, clammy skin beneath his worn-out brown coat. The plank lowered at an agonizing pace, inch by inch, all creaking wood and clanging chains.

Salt stung his eyes but he kept them open, refusing even to blink. Then it came – the moment he’d been waiting for. His boots thudded across the wood, almost heavy enough to drown out the percussive roaring of white, frothy waves and rush of blood in his ears. Heart pounding, chest tight, eager for solid ground beneath him once again. Maker, it was a relief like none other.

When they reached the inn hours later, he promptly flopped onto the small bed, still wearing his coat and boots, and passed out. It was a thankfully dreamless sleep, one born of such thorough exhaustion his mind had no energy left to conjure any fresh torture. He did not rise until the following morning.

**~**

It was their last day in the city. Within the next few hours, they’d begin the march toward Haven. There was a knock at the door to his room. Cullen pulled on a well-worn tunic and combed his hair back with his fingers. A fruitless effort, as it required far more to tame. He sighed.

“Enter.”

Sister Leliana stepped inside. They’d met long before she came to Kirkwall with Cassandra. Only once, during the Fifth Blight. She’d been kind to him then, kindness he wrongly rejected and spit back in her face with cruelty and vile words. Time had hardened her as well, in her own way, but she had tact enough never to bring up the past. Even if his admonishment was more than well deserved, she was not the spiteful sort.

She carried a large bundle wrapped in parchment, followed into the room by a servant carrying another. Despite its bulk and weight, she maneuvered with graceful ease and set it down on the bed. The servant followed, placed his package beside hers, then bowed and took his leave.

“I come bearing gifts,” she said with a mischievous smile.

He arched an eyebrow and stalked expectantly toward the bed. She unwrapped the parchment and unfolded the corners, revealing the full set of armor within. Beneath the armor lay two leather doublets and a new pair of boots. The second package contained three pairs of brown leather breeches, five simple cream-colored linen tunics, even new cotton smallclothes.

“This is… an expensive gift, Leliana.”

“You _are_ the Commander of our forces. You would do well to look the part, no?”

Cullen traced delicate lines across the armor with cautious fingertips, as though each polished, shining piece were made of glass. The helm was molded into the shape of a gaping lion’s maw, with a long, thick stripe of fur cascading from the crown.

“A lion’s helm? It seems rather… Orlesian.”

“With that golden mane of yours, I simply could not help myself,” she laughed. “I took liberties with the design. But the fur and leather are entirely Fereldan in style, no?” She pushed him behind the thin divider in the corner and handed him everything but the helm. It took some time to figure out all the different straps and buckles, to secure and adjust the fit. But it was not Cullen’s first time in armor and his experienced fingers performed the task deftly and methodically as always.

He stepped out and walked to the room’s small mirror. The sleeveless outer cloak was made of rich scarlet velvet trimmed in gold embroidery. Its fur, which wrapped around his neck and shoulders, dark brown with highlights of red. The shoulders and sleeves of his doublet were covered by pauldrons and vambraces. The hardened leather boots hid steel toes within and reached to his knees where they were held secure by poleyns. The beautifully embossed cuirass was partially enclosed within a tunic draping across his ribcage and waist, the same material and pattern as the cloak.

How did the woman even get his measurements? And when? Cullen was not a vain man, but the armor suited his tall, broad figure. Leliana was correct in her assessment. Without the helm, it looked very Fereldan. It was a suit unique in its juxtaposition of hard and soft, elegant and imposing.

He’d never worn armor so fine. Even Templar armor, which was crafted individually for each knight, ensuring its fitting, was never of this high quality. Not only did it fit perfectly, but also it was comfortable. Much lighter than what he’d become accustomed to, but still a suitable weight for his warrior class.

“It’s enchanted with fade-touched silverite. The Divine demands only the best for the leader of her army."

“Yes. Well. I… thank you.”

“Oh, and I do have something else.” She moved back to the bed where she withdrew a sword and shield. He’d never even heard her leave or reenter the room. The woman was sneaky and dangerous. Luckily they were on the same side.

The shield bore the symbol of the Inquisition, and the hilt of the sword, the same. He buckled the sword belt around his hips and hefted the shield onto his left arm. They were exquisite and well balanced. He didn’t deserve all of this. It was too much. More than he ever could have dreamed. Tears burned his eyes and he blinked, willed them away. He would not cry. Not in front of her. Not in front of anyone.

“I must say, you look rather _commanding_ in it. People will flock to our banner if only to see you.” She grinned. “And to you, many eligible ladies, no doubt.”

His cheeks grew warm and he glared at her reflection behind him in the mirror. “I am here to recruit, train, and lead soldiers, not… not to court ‘ladies’.”

“Who said anything about courting?” She laughed, a musical, lilting thing rife with mischief and mirth. “You Fereldans are so old-fashioned.”

“Maker’s breath, woman.”

**~**

They were in Haven less than a day when the shockwave hit and the sky wrenched open before their eyes. First came the flash, blinding light, and a thunderous clap, followed by seconds of deafening still silence. Then a rush of wind, powerful enough to sweep his feet from under him, knocking him on his back.

The ground shook, reminiscent of the rocking and bowing of the ship he’d left behind a week ago. His stomach lurched, vision tunneled, and he rolled onto his side, winded and gasping for breath. All sound had dimmed, as though his ears had been stuffed with cotton.

Cassandra lay a few feet away, unconscious. He dragged himself forward across the ground by his vambraces. Feeling slowly returned to his legs, stinging and tingling like they’d fallen asleep, and he pulled them up to crawl on his hands and knees. He leaned over her, stroked the long scar on the side of her face with gloved fingers. “Cass!” No response. He grasped her shoulders and gently shook. “Cassandra!”

Her brown, kohl-rimmed eyes blinked open slowly, brow furrowed with confusion. “Maker – what? What happened?”

“An explosion,” he shouted. “Just like the Chantry in Kirkwall. But this, this was much larger. Stronger. We need to move. Now!”

Her eyes flew open, wide and wild. “Justinia!” She sat up abruptly, smashing their foreheads together. They both cried out and rubbed their mutual wounds, staring at each other and wincing simultaneously. Had it occurred in any other situation, Cullen might’ve laughed.

“Go find Leliana. I’ll rally my men,” he said, standing. He reached down and pulled her to her feet. She clasped his arm briefly, nodded, then turned and ran through Haven’s gates, toward the Chantry beyond.

Cullen’s eyes swept over the scene. Most of the soldier’s tents had collapsed. Men and women lay all around him in the snow, slowly coming to and helping each other up. Someone screamed and pointed behind him. He turned. And there it was. A great, yawning chasm that tore through the sky. Churning storm clouds imbued with green light, spinning angrily and spitting out lightning and balls of what looked like… Maker, were those flaming _rocks_?

Cullen flew into action, gathering the soldiers that remained at Haven and in the valley between the town and the temple. Cassandra and Leliana rounded up the scouts, sent some out to gather intelligence. They returned quickly with word that rifts in the Veil had opened all across the area surrounding the Temple of Sacred Ashes, emptying out into their world the stuff of nightmares. With every hour that passed, the scar they dubbed “the Breach” grew, and with its expansion, new rifts appeared further and further away from the epicenter.

They made their way through the valley and up the mountain, battling demons and collecting the dead and injured. But once they reached the temple, it was clear. No one within the blast radius survived. The explosion had laid waste to most of the ancient, sacred monument. All that remained was rubble, bodies, fire, and ash and refuse. And lyrium. Red lyrium.

There was no mistaking its song, the swirling tendrils of its smoke, which wound through the air and grasped at him like so many claws. Massive chunks of it sprung forth from the cliffs around the building, embedded in the walls and ground within. Maker, if only one small piece of it had driven Meredith mad… This, this much could… _would_ destroy Thedas.

**~**

He’d spent the better half of the day fighting, and only left the last rift when Cassandra pulled him aside and told him to rest. He agreed, but only on the condition that they all fight in shifts. His second, Rylen, took over for him with the order to return after one hour with a detailed status report.

Now, Cullen stood on the bridge closest to the temple, delegating tasks, collecting reports and overseeing the distribution of supplies. Behind him, what few Chantry members that had not been at the Conclave were laying out the dead and preparing their bodies.

“Commander! Come quickly!” He turned. A recruit, Rory, ran up to him, breathless. She stopped a foot away and bent, clasping her knees.

“What is it?”

“We found someone,” she gasped, standing straight to salute. His jaw dropped open.

“Is it the Divine? Please, tell me you found her!”

“No, Ser. You won’t believe it, Ser, but it’s a girl, an elf. She… she fell out of the rift inside the temple.”

“She… what?”

He followed Rory to the temple. They’d already removed the girl, brought her outside the main steps. She lay on a bedroll, unconscious. A dozen soldiers, including one of his lieutenants, lingered in a wide circle around her, as though scared to get too close. They stared, whispering and arguing amongst themselves.

“She was _in_ the rift, I tell you! I saw it wit’ me own eyes!”

“What if she’s the one who did it? How else could she have survived?”

“I don’t believe it. I was there! Andraste herself pushed her out!”

The elf was unconscious, breathing shallowly. Tattooed silver branches danced over her high cheekbones, up her temples, continuing across her forehead and down the sloping bridge of her slightly upturned nose. A Dalish? Here?

Her clothing was all but shredded, covered in ash and gore. Enough remained to conceal her modesty, but what was torn and open revealed a lithe and supple body. Ethereal silvery-white hair tied loosely behind her head contrasted oddly with thin, dark eyebrows. Her heart-shaped face was streaked with dirt and contorted into an expression of pain, her full, plump lips deathly pale. If she were to answer any of their questions, she’d need healing, and quickly.

“Get me a blanket,” he ordered. Seconds later, he was handed one, and he draped it over her. “Lieutenant Danvers.”

“Commander.”

“Send word to Seeker Pentaghast to meet me back in Haven. She will – ah, want to question the girl if she awakens.”

“Yes, Ser!” They saluted and turned, taking several of the group with them as they marched away to find the Seeker.

Cullen dropped to one knee beside the elf. One arm hooked under her knees and the other wrapped around her back. He scooped her up as tenderly as one would a newborn babe, ensured the blanket was tucked carefully around her, and carried her down the mountain.

When he reached Haven, his legs were shaking, ready to buckle. Not that the girl was heavy, but he’d been on his feet, running on pure adrenaline, fighting in the thick snow for nearly six hours straight with no rest. The area was deserted, as most of their people were currently in the valley, holding off the demons as best they could. Those who weren’t soldiers or scouts hid in the stronghold and waited for news.

A small whimper reached his ears and the elf suddenly thrashed in his arms, nearly causing him to drop her. He tightened his grip, pulled her in close to his chest and crooned soothing, shushing noises to her as he walked quickly toward the cabin he’d been assigned. It was dark within, the torches and fireplace unlit.

He laid her down on his cot and knelt on the floor beside her. Brushed a lock of hair behind her short, pointed ear. She trembled, lips parting, and turned into his caress. He withdrew his hand with a gasp, heart jumping into his throat.

Maker, what was he doing? Touching her while she slept. What was wrong with him? The door burst open and he leaped to his feet, face hot.

“Where is she?” Cassandra snarled, stomping into the room. He gestured to the cot. She leaned out the door and called to the soldiers who’d followed her. “Take her to the dungeon. Now.”

“Cassandra, she’s unconscious and injured,” he said, startled.

“And she is our prisoner, for now.” She glowered down at the sleeping elf and watched as one of the men gathered her up. The woman was livid. There would be no arguing with her. He sighed and rubbed his neck.

“Maybe the apostate can… heal her.” A discomforting notion, but what other choice did they have?

Cassandra nodded, albeit reluctantly. “All right. I will send for him. Thank you, Cullen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be from Elaria Lavellan's POV. We'll journey back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and meet the team.
> 
> Additional tags to be added as the story progresses.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	2. The Temple of Sacred Ashes

The air was cold and damp. Prickling goosebumps crawled and crept like insects across her skin, terror lingering at the edge of her mind, its steely grip still wound tightly through her heart. The fleeting remnant of a dream, of choking fog where spiders chased her and she was sure of her impending death. But everything before, a blur.

As her tear-encrusted eyes slowly opened, shivers ran down her spine. Sleeping curled in a ball on the stone floor left a crook in her neck, and her legs were numb. Where was she? She lifted her throbbing head and coughed, throat dry, cracked from thirst. 

The rattle of metal chains startled her further awake. Heavy steel manacles enveloped her thin wrists. Certainly, she was still dreaming. This couldn’t be real. She wore strange, baggy clothing – nothing like her own. She looked up. Four shems, dressed like soldiers, surrounded her with swords drawn. Her eyes grew wide.

“What… what’s going on?”

She strained her arms, but the weight of the metal dragged them down. She gasped for breath, pulse racing, heart squeezing tight in her chest. A light flared to life in her palm, a scorching fire deep within the skin and she cried out, seeing stars. Tears just as hot ran down her cheeks and she looked up again, eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape route. The door flung open on creaking hinges and two women stepped through.

One wore a warrior’s armor, the all-seeing eye in the center of a sun painted in white on her breastplate. A warrior with olive-toned skin and short brunette hair, a thin braid woven around her head like a crown. She had long legs, wide hips and broad shoulders. Her sharp, angular features contorted into a furious scowl. 

She walked cautiously, one hand on the sword hanging from her belt. The soldiers sheathed their weapons and stepped back. The other, slightly taller, leaner woman kept her hands clasped behind her as she whispered stealthily into the room, a hood shadowing her face. A fellow rogue.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the warrior said. She’d been to Nevarra once with her clan, and recognized the accent. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” She stalked around to her left, tone accusing and abrupt. Elaria locked her jaw, remaining silent.

“Explain this!” The woman grabbed her wrist, yanking her half off the floor. Almond-shaped brown eyes glared into hers and the light flared on her hand, shooting searing pain through her once more.

“I… can’t,” she said through gritted teeth. "I don’t know what that is or how it got there.”

“You’re lying!”

“You think I did this _to myself_?” she shouted.

The warrior moved as if to strike her, but the second woman stepped forward into the light and grabbed her forearm, halting the blow. She had fair skin dusted with pale freckles, her face framed by chin-length, strawberry hair.

“We need her, Cassandra,” she said with an Orlesian inflection.

“I don’t understand. My Keeper, she sent me. I was to report to my clan, tell them the outcome of the Conclave, nothing more! Why have you put me in chains?”

The woman called Cassandra looked at her. “Do you remember what happened?”

Elaria shook her head. “I remember running. Things were chasing me. And then… a woman?”

The Orlesian’s icy blue eyes narrowed. “A woman?”

“She reached out to me, but then…” The two woman glanced at each other, expressions indecipherable. Elaria’s heart pounded in her chest. Cold sweat ran down her forehead. She shivered again.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

The hooded woman nodded and silently left the room. Elaria swallowed the lump in her sore, dry throat. “What _did_ happen?”

Cassandra pulled her to her feet, removed the manacles, and bound her wrists with rope. She stated bluntly, “It will be easier to show you,” then led her from the cell through a door to the outside. She followed clumsily, legs tingling from the sudden stimulation. The frigid mountain air was shocking against her clammy skin.

Elaria looked up and her jaw dropped. “What the…” A massive vortex of green light and energy swirled in the sky. Clouds whirled around it, lightning flashing then disappearing within the tumultuous haze.

“We call it the Breach. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.” The Breach grew suddenly, the mark on Elaria’s hand flaring with it. The pain sent her to her knees and her vision swam.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you,” Cassandra said. “You may be the key to closing the Breach, but there isn’t much time.”

What could she do? She couldn’t run, and even then, where would she go? They were in the mountains. She was weaponless and alone, surrounded by these shems. Had no food, no supplies, no coin. But they hadn’t killed her, and this woman wasn’t threatening to… yet. Maybe closing this _thing_ in the sky would take the pain from her hand. Maybe then, they would let her go. She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly.

“I’ll do what I can… Whatever it takes.”

**~**

Not long after, the bridge they were crossing collapsed. She’d come to amidst the rubble on the frozen river below, vision swimming. The hair above her forehead was sticky and matted with blood. They were immediately confronted by demons. Elaria found a bow, and Cassandra reluctantly agreed to let her keep it. 

When they made it to the first rift Elaria froze, dumbfounded. It was like a miniature version of the Breach, a swirling vortex of Fade energy, chunky green crystals erratically growing and shrinking in a cluster mid-air. The mark seared white-hot again and she bit her cheek, fighting one pain with another. A group of soldiers fought the demons beneath the rift, along with an elvhen mage and crossbow-wielding dwarf.

“Quickly, before more come through!” The tall, slender mage lunged and grabbed Elaria’s left wrist. He shoved her hand up toward the rift and she yelped as a streak of green magic erupted from her palm to connect to the rift. Power coursed through her body, providing some odd relief from the pain as though expelling a long-held breath. She snapped her hand into a fist and the rift closed in a puff of fog.

“What did you do?” she gasped, staring at the handsome elf. His head, narrow jaw, and prominent dimpled chin were hairless and smooth, the fair skin completely free of vallaslin. He wore a beige tunic belted around his waist with a strap of leather beneath a simple green robe, a wolf’s jaw dangling from a leather thong around his neck.

His lips lifted in a smirk. “_I _did nothing. The credit is yours.”

“I closed that thing? How?”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake." He clasped his hands in front of him. "It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know!” a deep, gravelly voice interjected. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” The stocky, muscular dwarf adjusted his leather gauntlets; head cocked to the side, broad mouth curved into a devious grin. 

His dirty blond hair was slicked back and tied behind his head in a topknot. He had warm beige skin, a wide square jaw covered in rough stubble and a broad nose that had clearly been broken several times in the past. His unbuttoned red tunic revealed a wealth of curly chest hair unlike any she’d ever seen. It was hard not to stare.

“Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at Cassandra, who immediately scowled. Elaria blinked once, slowly, as his words sank in.

“Wait… you’re _Varric Tethras_?”

As if his grin weren’t broad enough, the dwarf’s mouth stretched even further. “The one and only.”

“I… I’ve read _Tale of the Champion_.” All three of them gave her odd looks. Heat flooded her cheeks and she looked at her feet.

“A Dalish elf read my book?”

“My babae… he brought me books sometimes from our trades with the shems. It isn’t… common.” Keeper Deshanna was quite upset when she found out, actually. She took Elaria’s books and burned them, and kept it secret from the rest of the clan. Said it was for her own good.

“Ah, so you’re a rebel. I think we’ll get along just fine,” he laughed. “But right now, I’m technically a prisoner, like you.”

The mage introduced himself as Solas. Apparently, he’d prevented the mark from killing her while she slept. The two of them decided to join her and Cassandra, and they continued on to the forward camp together.

Not long after, they met up with the hooded rogue, Leliana, and an angry shem named Roderick. He yelled a lot, demanded that Elaria be taken to Orlais and _executed_. Thankfully, Cassandra refused. She was determined to close the Breach and was clearly not fond of the man’s political posturing. Elaria agreed with Cassandra, said they should charge ahead to the temple. Might as well get this over with.

Every lift of her legs was heavier and harder than the last. She was accustomed to walking long distances, but not trudging up mountains in knee-deep snow. She’d had no food or drink for… well, it was hard to remember. Every so often and she had to stop and blink away the encroaching mental fog. With every throb of her aching skull came a wave of nausea. She swallowed down the bile and clenched her jaw. She had to keep going.

Mangled, charred corpses littered the ground, interspersed between mounds of debris, some of which were still on fire. A thick layer of ash hovered in the air smelling of death and smoke, settling upon and blackening all it touched. A Chantry sister was busy wrapping the bodies soldiers brought out and laid out in rows. Elaria’s stomach heaved. Her hand pulsed and the mark flared again. She stumbled, and Cassandra caught her.

“Be wary – another Fade rift,” Solas warned.

Varric groaned, “How many rifts _are_ there?”

They approached an enormous stone archway at the top of the stairs. Panic crept up from Elaria’s gut, her pulse quickened and hands clenched into fists. At least twenty bodies lay scattered on the ground around the rift, and those who lived still fought.

Solas summoned barriers for the group as they lunged toward the other soldiers. The rift spawned a second wave of demons, tall thin ones with long green arms and claws and large, empty black eyes. Elaria strung her bow and tried to provide some cover fire for Cassandra as she neared the front line.

Varric ran behind the warrior, threw down several mines to block the demons path, and backed up to take fire from range. Solas hit the demons with a spell, tossing them to the ground and threw up a wall of ice around them, buying the soldiers time to regroup. Her quiver was running low, and she would need to make the few arrows she had count. She drew her bow slowly, pulling the string taut, her fingers brushing against her cheek.

A flash of color caught her eye. There, a tall, golden-haired human fought, carrying an enormous longsword and heavy shield. He stood out dramatically among the other soldiers, wearing a scarlet cloak embellished with fur around the shoulders. 

The man slashed one of the demons in a long diagonal arc across its body, drew his sword back and thrust into its center, then tore upward. He planted his feet to stabilize himself and yanked his sword out right as a second demon approached from his rear.

“Behind you!” she shouted and took her shot. Her arrow plunged into the demon’s skull right as the man turned. He cut the stumbling and wounded demon clear in half, glancing back at her for a brief moment before rushing on to help the others.

There! An open path to the rift! She slung her bow onto her back and dashed forward on fast but aching legs, sliding past the others fighting. She came right up under the rift and shot her burning hand into the sky. She gritted her teeth as a stream of light connected it to the mark. Suddenly something slammed into her left side, breaking the connection, and she was tossed to the ground in a heap. 

A demon had spawned from the ground beneath her. She lifted her head slowly, dazed and winded. It loomed over her. Then, a horrifying scream – was that her voice? 

She struggled to regain her footing, but succeeded only in scrambling desperately backward on her bottom. It reached for her with one bony claw. Ears flooded with the rapid pounding of her heartbeat. The smell of blood and smoke filled her nostrils, its taste creeping across her tongue and down her throat, choking her. She froze.

It clutched the front of her coat, lifting her like a ragdoll several feet from the ground. Just as Elaria accepted her fate, a sword ripped into the demon from behind. It writhed as its essence was sucked back into the Fade and she fell, landing hard on her knees. The golden-haired man stood where the demon had once been, panting heavily. He looked down at her with intense, unreadable amber eyes.

As suddenly as he’d appeared, he turned around and ran. Elaria jumped to her feet. She plunged her arm to the sky again, crying out with desperation. She imagined pulling the rift out of the sky, into herself. The mark pulsed as fade energy arced through it. She concentrated past the strange sensations, until that now-familiar feeling touched her mind. She yanked her arm back as hard as she could, closing her hand into a fist. The rift snapped shut, leaving nothing but a puddle of essence on the dirt in its wake. 

She collapsed, drenched in sweat, and nearly fainted as the fog of exhaustion threatened to engulf her. Her entire body hurt. Solas dashed quickly to her side and pulled her easily to her feet; he was much stronger than he looked.

“Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this,” he remarked. She swayed but he held her steady.

Varric appeared behind them. “Let’s hope it works on the big one.”

Elaria clung to the mage while he handed her an elfroot potion. She murmured her gratitude and downed it in one swig. Her red-cloaked savior jogged toward Cassandra. He cut an imposing figure, tall and broad in shining silver armor.

“Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift? Well done.”

“Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner’s doing,” she said, stepping aside and motioning behind her.

“Is it?” He looked at her and frowned. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

“You’re not the only one hoping that,” she said, narrowing her eyes defiantly.

His eyes moved down her body once, quickly, then back up to her face. “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we.” He turned away from her to face Cassandra. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.” Cassandra waved her group forward. The “Commander” glanced at her again, hesitated a moment. She braced herself for another rude comment. But his face softened, grew almost wistful.

“Maker watch over you – for all our sakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of skipping the prologue entirely but felt it left an awkward gap that would have to be filled with too much "telling" in the subsequent chapters. But I didn't want to overdo it with the game dialogue so I tried to work around some of the exposition and head straight to the action.
> 
> Brief note about my fight scenes - Elaria is the only one who has to "level up" in my fic. It doesn't make as much sense to me if all the companions don't start with their specializations, at least for the sake of storytelling. Except maybe Solas - obviously *spoiler* he has not attained his full power yet.
> 
> In the next chapter, Elaria's in for another big surprise.
> 
> Elaria:  
  



	3. The Herald of Andraste

Elaria awoke stiff and sore, and rapidly blinked her eyes as they adjusted to the light to find an unfamiliar wooden ceiling above her. Wait – a ceiling?

She lifted up on her elbows and looked around. A stone fireplace with wooden mantle crackled to her left. The room was sparsely furnished, with just a couple of tables and chairs and shelves against the walls. A red rectangular rug spread across the stone floor in the center of the room. It was simple but warm and safe. One might say cozy, even, if they were used to sleeping indoors.

Slowly, her memories returned to her. The vision at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the ensuing battle with the giant Pride demon. Then nothing. She laid back down, wide-eyed, pulse racing. What happened after? Was the Breach closed? She’d been bathed and wore only smallclothes under the thin blanket. How long had she been asleep? Who had undressed her? 

She chuckled softly to herself. At least she wasn’t in a dungeon this time.

The sound of a door opening had her sitting up with a startled cry, clutching the blanket to her naked chest for fear of more strange shemlen with swords. Instead, a frail elvhen woman with boyish short brown hair stood gaping at her holding a box. It tumbled out of her arms and crashed to the floor.

“Ah! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” She started to back away.

“Why are you frightened?” Elaria frowned. “What happened?”

“That’s wrong, isn’t it? I’ve said the wrong thing!”

“Uh… I don’t… think so.”

The woman dropped dramatically to her knees, hands on the rug in front of her. “I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

A servant? She had no vallaslin. So, a city elf. Elaria shook her head and scooted up to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the floor and she turned to face her fellow elf, unashamed of her nudity. “Where am I?”

“You are back in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand!" Elaria looked down at her palm. The light was faintly visible but it did not hurt now. It merely… tingled, pins and needles like when a limb falls asleep.

The elf explained that she'd been asleep for three days. Cassandra had been waiting for her to wake up, and was currently in the Chantry. With that, she scurried back to the door and took off. Elaria stood up and stretched her rigid, aching limbs, immediately wincing from a pain in her ribs. There was a chair beside a small round table at the foot of the bed. On top of it, a neatly folded pile of clothes, and a pair of boots on the floor beside it. A bottle of wine sat on another larger rectangular table across from the bed. She promptly uncorked it and took a long swig. This was real. This was really happening.

The box the elf had dropped contained some medical supplies – a jar of healing poultice, some clean rags, gauze, a waterskin, and potions. She collected the items and put them on the bigger table. Might come in handy later.

A chamber pot sat in the far corner by the door, where she relieved her swollen bladder. She didn’t even want to think about whether or not she’d pissed herself in the three days she was asleep. As if being disrobed by a stranger, maybe even a shem, was not humiliation enough. Against the opposite wall, on the other side of the door, sat a washbasin with a small mirror.

Faded purple circles sagged beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were gaunter than she remembered. A faint bruise near the hairline on her forehead was in the late stages of healing, a tiny, thin scar at its center. Another enormous bruise of a similar color covered her left side, from her ribcage to her thigh. There were numerous other small bruises on her arms, legs, and abdomen. But she wasn’t gushing blood and nothing was broken.

Elaria sighed and left the mirror. She grabbed the clothes from the table, dressed, and tied back her hair. Neglecting the boots, she took another swig of the wine and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to get her bearings. Then she stood, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went to the cabin door. 

Cold, crisp mountain air washed over her like a cleansing wave. Two guards were stationed in a few feet ahead of her door, saluting and at attention. A huge crowd of humans awaited beyond them. It was awkwardly quiet, but people whispered all around as she walked out.

The mass of people formed two rows, lined up along a dirt path. Most were saluting, some had arms crossed but looked on curiously, while others knelt in prayer. Fortified timber barriers surrounded the… town? Whatever it was. A cabin sat directly next to hers, to her right, and a little beyond that, a large wooden gate. She walked the path the people formed for her, hoping it led to the Chantry.

“That’s her… that’s the Herald of Andraste. They said when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her,” whispered one man in the crowd.

“Hush,” said a woman’s voice. “We shouldn’t disturb her.”

Were they talking about her? No. That wasn’t possible. She made her way through the small town, past several clusters of staring, chattering villagers, until she came to the Chantry. Over a dozen clergy members lingered near the entrance, whispering amongst themselves. Elaria walked by, wide-eyed, heart beating out of her chest.

“Go in peace, Herald of Andraste.”

“Maker watch over you.”

Dashing past the group through the Chantry doors, she slammed them shut behind her, exhaled a long, relieved sigh and leaned her back against the wood. The hall was empty, thank the Creators. What in the Void was going on? 

She meandered for a bit, not knowing precisely where to meet Cassandra. The door directly ahead of her on the far end of the Chantry was lit by two metal torches hung on either side. A red banner with the sun symbol hung above it. As she neared the door, she heard familiar voices.

“Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by… whoever becomes Divine!” Elaria moved closer, listening with bated breath.

“I do not believe she is guilty,” said Cassandra with finality.

“The _elf_ failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”

This arsehole, again. Elaria threw open the door and stalked in, glaring indignantly at Chancellor Roderick to her left. He was in his mid-forties, at least, and had small, squinting eyes and dark, bushy, pointed eyebrows. He wore white and red Chantry vestments and a dark leather hat with sunburst symbol indicating his position. 

Two guards stood on either side of the door inside the room, but they made no move to apprehend her or prevent her entry. Cassandra was leaning on her elbows against the long table in the middle of the room, looking exasperated. Leliana stood to the right of the warrior, arms crossed.

The Chancellor immediately demanded she be chained and sent to Val Royeaux for trial. Elaria glowered at him, but remained silent. Cassandra stood abruptly. “Disregard that, and leave us,” she ordered. The guards saluted Cassandra, left the room and shut the door.

Roderick rounded the table slowly, toward Cassandra. “You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

Cassandra stepped up to him, undeterred. “The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will _not_ ignore it.”

“So I’m still a suspect, even after what we just did?” Elaria asked. The man got on her nerves enough the first time, now it took all her willpower to not leap across the room and strangle him.

“You _absolutely_ are.”

“No, she is not,” said Cassandra.

Leliana took a step forward. “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps that died with the others, or that have allies who yet live.”

“_I_ am a suspect?” he asked, incredulous.

“You. And many others.” Her eyes narrowed. If looks alone could kill, Roderick would be no longer be talking.

“But _not_ the prisoner?”

The three of them continued to argue, talking about her as though she weren’t standing in the room. She might as well have been an insect on the wall for all the good her presence did. Cassandra, surprisingly, now believed she was not only innocent – but sent by the Maker. Roderick was infuriated.

Suddenly, Cassandra slammed a huge, heavy book down on the table. Elaria jumped, startled. “You know what this is, Chancellor?” Cassandra gestured to the book. “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” 

**~**

Elaria left the Chantry even more confused than when she’d entered. What the fuck just happened? Unease settled in the pit of her stomach like a weighted stone. This was a lot to take in. First, she was their prisoner. Now, they wanted her to_ join_ them? For some… holy mission from the murdered head of a religion not her own?

They told her she was free to go. But could she make it back to the Free Marches in the middle of a war, all on her own? Even then, how would she explain this to her clan? The Conclave, the mark on her hand? Cassandra was right. Everything had changed; she had changed. The mage-Templar war and the Breach... they endangered everyone, humans and elves alike. People were dead, and more would die. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing, but by Mythal, how she longed for Da'riel to be here by her side. 

Despondent and alone, wandering aimlessly, she made her way toward the cabins to her left and found Solas standing beside a low stone wall, staring at the Breach. He was one of very few elves in Haven that she’d seen thus far. An intriguing one, at that. 

Solas was a complete mystery. He was broader-shouldered than most elves, except perhaps her twin, who was the tallest and largest male in her clan. He clearly wasn’t Dalish, but he didn’t sound like a city elf either. Elaria had traveled to many countries in her life, but could not place his accent or dialect. 

He turned as she approached. Eyes, piercing grey like storm clouds, bored into her as if he could see into her soul and read her thoughts. “The chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was being polite or sarcastic, but forced a smile regardless. “Am I riding in on a shining steed?” she quipped, feigning nonchalance.

“I would have suggested a griffon, but sadly they’re extinct.” His mouth smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “Joke as you will, posturing is necessary.” He walked a few steps away.

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations… I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clashed to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He turned to face her. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“I don’t think I’m much of a hero.”

“Ah, but you are, at least to the people here.” He looked away and then spoke as though to himself more than her, “I will stay. At least until the Breach has been closed.”

“Was that in doubt?”

He looked at her, head cocked, and frowned. “I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.”

“How would you stop them?”

“However I had to," she said. His frown dissipated into a surprised smile. 

“Thank you. I appreciate the thought." He spoke as though he didn’t expect a fellow elf to stand up for him. Why? Just because he was a mage? The Dalish did not treat mages the same way that humans did, imprisoning them in Circles, hunting them down when they sought freedom. Her clan had mages, her Keeper being one, as all were. Templars left them alone for the most part, at least in the Free Marches. But she’d never met a lone elvhen apostate like him. How did he survive? Did non-Dalish clans exist that she didn’t know about? 

He sighed. "For now, closing the Breach is our primary goal, but I hope we might also discover what was used to create it. Any artifact of such power is dangerous. The destruction of the Conclave proves that much.” 

“You don’t think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast?”

“You survived, did you not?" He smirked. "The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes. In any case…” he paused, eyes quickly flitting over her and back up to her face. “Did you need me for anything?”

Now that Elaria had _physically_ entered the Fade and been marked by it, she wanted to learn as much as she could. If anyone here could teach her, it would be him.

“What can you tell me about the Fade?”

He looked at her approvingly and gestured to one of the cabins. They entered and he closed the door, pulling out a chair for her to sit beside a narrow table against the back wall. He sat opposite her, leaning his elbows on the table, with hands clasped together. “There are few hard facts, but I can share what I have learned.”

Her eyes drifted to a bowl of fruit on the table. She hadn’t eaten in days. He followed her gaze and smiled, plucked an apple from the bowl and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it from his hand.

“Thank you. Um… so, as you well know, I am no mage. Can you tell me, what exactly _is _the Veil?” She bit into the apple. Oh, Creators! It had been so long since she’d had any food, much less fresh fruit! His eyes followed her tongue as it traced her lips, gathering the crisp, sweet juice that lingered there.

“Circle mages call it a barrier between this world and the Fade. But according to my studies in ancient elvhen lore, that is a vast oversimplification. Without it… imagine if spirits entered freely. If the Fade was not a place one went but a state of nature like the wind.”

Elaria wasn’t sure she _could_ imagine that, not in the way Solas did. It seemed to mean a lot to him, however. She swallowed a chunk of apple. “So the Breach is a tear in the Veil between the world and the Fade, and it allows spirits, and demons, to enter our world physically. Like a doorway. And the mark is... a key of some sort? That allowed me to move between here and the Fade?”

“Precisely.” He looked pleased. “Small tears occur naturally when magic weakens the Veil or when spirits cluster at an area that has seen many deaths. But your mark allows you to exert some control over the Breach. That means it was created deliberately.” She looked at her marked hand, clenching and unclenching her fingers. It currently emitted no light, but still tingled as if partially numb.

“Does it pain you still?”

She shook her head, “Not anymore. It just feels strange. Do you think the mark is… permanent?”

“I… cannot say. So long as the Breach remains stable, however, it should no longer spread.”

“I never thanked you properly for helping me. So, thank you, Solas. I… I owe you my life.”

He smiled. “You are quite welcome. I was happy to do it.”

“If there is ever anything you need of me, Solas… please do not hesitate to ask.” For the briefest moment, something flashed in his eyes. A hint of sorrow or longing, a window into the troubled soul he so masterfully hid behind a carefully crafted veneer of wisdom and calm.

“You are… not what I expected.”

“Is that a good thing, or bad?” she asked, half-joking.

“So far? Good.”

“I’m glad.” She grinned and stood, still holding the half-eaten apple. “I enjoyed talking with you, Solas.”

“And I, you.”

**~**

Called the following morning to some kind of meeting, she met Cassandra at the Chantry doors and followed her to the room at the far end of the Chantry where they'd argued with Roderick the previous day. The table now had a map of Thedas stretched over its middle. Directly across it stood the man from the temple, thick golden hair perfectly coiffed, hands resting upon the pommel of the sword on his left hip. On his right was Leliana. On his left, a pretty woman with deep bronze skin she had not yet met. 

Cassandra began the introductions. “You’ve met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

He had a strong jaw and chin both covered in a hint of unshaved light-brown stubble – noticeably darker than his hair, as were his eyebrows, and high, defined cheekbones. An old scar bisected the right side of his top lip, cutting through the vermillion border, and continued upward into his nasolabial fold. It emphasized the natural curve of his... very attractive lips. Oh, Creators.

“It was only for a moment on the field. I’m pleased you survived.” His voice was a deep, smooth baritone, perfectly highlighting his charming Fereldan drawl. Gone was the irritated, apprehensive frown he’d worn on the battlefield. Now, his deep-set, hooded amber eyes were earnest and inviting – and he hadn’t taken them off her since she walked in the room. Elaria’s heart skipped a beat at the unexpectedly warm smile he gave her, and a blush crept unbidden to her cheeks.

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat,” Cassandra said.

“Andaran atish’an,” she said with a melodic Antivan accent, her honey-brown eyes sincere. She held a wooden tablet with parchment in one graceful hand, quill in the other.

“You speak elvhen?”

“That’s the entirety of it, I’m afraid. A pleasure to meet you at last.” 

The dark brown hair atop Josephine's crown was braided back into an elegant bun at her nape. She wore a dress of gold silk sleeves, matching sash and tights, with a blue velvet vest and bodice. Dainty, flat blue slippers adorned her feet. She looked like a noble, but was far too nice for that to be true.

Cassandra continued, “And of course you know Sister Leliana.”

The woman’s purple cloth hood draped gracefully around red hair, clasped at her shoulder by two round silver brooches. From chest down, her knee-length grey leather garment was covered in light chainmail. Her legs bore metal armor from just above her knee down to the top of her boots, arms covered in leather.

“My position here involves a degree of…”

“She is our Spymaster.”

“Yes…” Leliana exhaled, eyes narrowing. “Tactfully put, Cassandra.” The two women stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. Despite her pretty, delicate features, the Spymaster was supremely intimidating – a bit more so than the Commander, in fact. Like a predator crouched, waiting in the shadows. A dagger in the darkness.

Elaria cleared her throat. “Pleased to meet you all,” she said, nodding to each of them in turn.

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” said Cassandra.

Leliana nodded. “Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.”

“And I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well,” Cullen argued. The frustrated scowl had returned to his face.

Cassandra shook her head. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark –“

“Might destroy us all,”–he swept his arm emphatically–“Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so –“

“Pure speculation,” Leliana interrupted.

“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of." 

**~**

The Herald now wore the leather mid-weight armor of a rogue. Harritt, the smith, had done well, and the guise suited her. Her narrow waist was attractively emphasized by the form-fitting vest beneath her thigh-length scout coat. Her hips and lithe, sinewy thighs were encased in skin-tight grey leather, yet her feet remained bare. The scarred corner of his lip quirked at that. 

When Cullen said he was pleased she survived, he genuinely meant it. He hadn't seen her after Cassandra took her to her cell, not until she arrived at the temple. He'd prayed for her. And then suddenly she was awake, fighting beside him. She was quick with a bow, skilled, fast on her feet. Graceful and agile. Distracting. When that terror demon grabbed her, when she screamed, his heart stopped, overcome with the need to protect her.

He regretted being so short with her afterward, but he'd lost so many men. He'd been exhausted, sick from the nearby red lyrium, his head ready to burst. Hopefully, she didn't hold it against him. Not that he deserved her forgiveness. If the pretty elf who closed the rifts and stopped the Breach, the alleged chosen of Andraste herself, hated him... No. Why would it matter anyway? Why did he care so much?

Suddenly, she glanced toward him, and he moved his eyes quickly away before she caught him staring. Unfortunately, his gaze moved straight on to Leliana, who smirked knowingly. The knot at the base of his neck tightened and he shifted his feet. The damn woman never missed a thing.

“Neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically,” said Josephine.

“That didn’t take long,” the Herald quipped.

Cullen scoffed. “Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who’s going to become Divine?”

Josephine looked at the Herald. “Some are calling you – a Dalish elf – the ‘Herald of Andraste’, and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.”

“It limits our options. Approaching the mages or Templars for help is currently out of the question.” Josephine’s gaze flicked toward the tablet in her hands.

“Um, about that. Just how am _I_ the ‘Herald of Andraste’?” The Herald put her hands on her hips, planting her feet slightly apart. Her lips pursed and brow knitted. She was small but spirited. Adorable. Gorgeous. Maker, he had to stop thinking about her like that. And stop staring!

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste,” said Cassandra.

Leliana turned to the Herald. “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading–"

“Which we have not,” Cassandra interrupted, casting the Spymaster an annoyed scowl.

“The point is – everyone is talking about you.”

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it?” Cullen asked. “How do you feel about that?”

“It’s…” she sighed, “a little unsettling.” Her eyes lingered on his face as though studying his reaction. Large and bright with long, full lashes. Eyes that had haunted his memory for days.

He laughed. “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign,” Leliana said.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong,” added Josephine.

“There is something you can do.” Leliana stepped forward and explained that a Chantry cleric, Mother Giselle, had asked to speak with her, and could possibly provide assistance.

The meeting concluded, his colleagues left the room. The Herald stayed, however. She slowly moved toward the table, leaned down and spread her palms flat upon it. Staring at the map, she sighed wearily. He came around the side of the table, taking a few cautious steps toward her.

“Herald - er, Mistress Lavellan – I…” he faltered as she turned to face him. Up close, her eyes were even more striking. Turquoise-blue, they glittered now in the firelight like rare, precious gems. Fear flashed within them for an instant, yet she boldly stood her ground, hands on her hips.

She was nearly a head shorter than he was, and had to tilt her head up to look at him. Before, her face had been covered in dirt and soot. Now clean, her skin was smooth like porcelain, the faintest blush dusting across her tattooed cheekbones. The natural rouge-pink coloring had returned to her lips.

“Uh, I… Forgive me, my lady.” He gave a slight bow, right hand clutched to his chest. “I must apologize for my… rudeness when last we spoke. That was unworthy of me. I know this can’t be easy for you.”

She said nothing. He lifted his head, body still bent slightly at the waist. The Herald looked him up and down, head cocked to the side, chewing on the edge of her plump bottom lip. 

“Why?”

He straightened, startled. “Why what?”

“Why do you care what I think or feel? Why ask my forgiveness?”

“Oh. Well, you are…” Beautiful. “Ahem, uh, our Herald, now. It is my duty to serve the Inquisition and protect the people of Thedas. To protect you, as well. I’d like it, very much, if we could be… um…”

Her eyebrows rose and the corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk. “Friendly?”

“Yes,” he said a little too quickly. “Please allow me to make it up to you. If ever you require anything, all you need is to ask, and I will do what I can.”

“Hmm. A _very_ tempting offer.” She winked. Heat flooded his cheeks and his arm shot up to rub the nape of his neck. Was she _flirting_ with him? His heart thudded obnoxiously in his chest at the notion.

“One question, though," she said a bit hesitantly. "You say it is your duty to protect ‘the people’… All people?”

“What do you mean?” He lowered his arm.

“Will you protect elves as well?”

“Of course,” he said, frowning slightly.

She dropped her arms to her sides then and smiled. It was a toothy grin, wide and sincere. Time slowed to a crawl as he stared at her. Suddenly, she extended her hand. 

“Very well. I forgive you. Now please, my name is not 'my lady' or 'Mistress' anything. It's Elaria Lanaya Shala'saron Lavellan. A mouthful, I know, so just call me Elaria.”

Not only was the elf herself astounding, but her name was perhaps the most beautiful he'd ever heard. “I – uh…” he stuttered as he grasped her small, delicate fingers. Even through his gloves, the contact was electrifying. Something stirred within him, propelled him a step closer, hand still gripping hers firmly yet gently as heat spread beneath his breastplate. His voice lowered to an intimate whisper as he raised it. “Alright… _Elaria_.”

Her skin, silken against his lips, smelled musky and sweet. Her own lips parted, pupils dilating before her eyes broke shyly away from his. Cullen dropped her hand, cleared his throat and took a step back.

“Ah… and you may call me Cullen. At least, when we are alone. I mean, Maker, not that I plan to be – uh – alone with you. Just around my men, you know, I must maintain a certain level of…of–“

She laughed, “I understand. Thank you.” Her laugh was enthralling, husky and sensual. A warm tingle spread through his chest from the sound. She lifted her hand, staring at the palm that bore the mark, before raising her eyes back to him, now serious.

“And I vow to you, I will do whatever is within my power to aid the Inquisition and seal the Breach.” Her determination was admirable. He smiled. Her eyes flitted to his lips and hovered there. Was she looking at his scar? Suddenly self-conscious, his flush deepened and he glanced toward the floor.

“Until later… _Cullen_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More game dialogue, property of Bioware. Cut down the Solas bits but kept some because... well, plot.
> 
> This chapter splits POV. I thought about breaking it up but Cullen's section was pretty short and it felt odd to make it its own chapter. 
> 
> In Chapter 4, Elaria travels to the Hinterlands and comes face to face with the mage-Templar war.


	4. Blood and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**   
_Graphic Canon-Typical Violence_   
_Emotional Trauma_

After almost a week traveling on foot, they reached the Inquisition base camp at the outskirts of the Hinterlands. It took all Elaria’s willpower not to flop down onto the lush grass and take a nap right then and there. She was immediately greeted by an attractive young dwarf in Inquisition armor, with light auburn hair pulled into a tight bun, fair, freckled skin, and brilliant golden eyes.

“The Herald of Andraste,” she said reverently. “I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach. It’s an honor to meet you. Scout Lieutenant Harding, at your service. I – all of us here – we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Harding, huh?" Varric grinned. "Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

“I can’t say I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in… oh, never mind.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra grunted, rolling her eyes.

“I’m starting to worry about these ‘stories’ that everyone’s heard,” Elaria said warily.

“Oh. There’s nothing to worry about," said Harding. They only say you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

“Oh.” She grimaced. “Wonderful.”

Scout Harding explained the situation in the area and told her where to find Mother Giselle and the local horsemaster, a man named Dennet. Afterward, Elaria drifted over to a nearby ridge to survey the land below. The Hinterlands were truly beautiful. Fertile agricultural land full of lush green forests, low flat farming plains interspersed with rolling hills, pristine lakes and rivers. To think that such a place would be disturbed by war… it was a travesty.

She and her team made their way downhill. It didn’t take long before they began passing battered, brutalized bodies littering the trail, splayed haphazardly across the ground. Some were frozen, like statues mid-battle, in chunks of ice protruding from the ground. She heard the familiar ringing of metal on metal up ahead. The Inquisition forces were fighting to protect the refugees from mages and Templars alike.

Solas froze the nearest Templar and Varric rained down automatic fire from his crossbow. Cassandra ran forward and shield-bashed the Templar, shattering the ice around him and knocking off his helm. He reared back, startled, and she swung her sword in a broad arc. His head rolled through the dirt, coming to a stop by Elaria’s feet. She stared at it, unmoving.

A war cry from Cassandra shocked her into motion. She strung her bow with trembling fingers, managing to send one arrow through a mage’s thigh. The mage unleashed a blood-curdling scream and cast a fire glyph beneath her. She rolled to the side just in time to avoid the brunt of the explosion. She ducked down and covered her head with her arms as splintered pieces of wood and rock flew out around her.

The smell of burnt leather wafted into her nostrils – a few of the embers landed on her coattail but luckily did not catch. Solas froze the mage and recast a barrier over Elaria, glancing to the side to make sure she was unharmed. He pointed with his staff. “Be ready! More coming our way!”

A group of Templars stormed through, fighting her and her companions as well as the mages. One of them cast a Spell Purge and Elaria’s barrier evaporated. Varric dashed forward and tossed out a ring of mines, which the Templars promptly ran right through. A half-dozen deafening explosions rang out, one after another, with a dazzling rainbow of color. The two remaining mages took advantage of the chaos, quickly downing lyrium potions to restore their mana.

Suddenly the ground erupted all around them as multiple fire glyphs went off at once. Elaria threw herself down behind a boulder. The smoke in the air burned her eyes, throat and nose and her ears rang. She activated stealth and scrambled up to peer over the edge of the rock.

A Templar knight speared one mage through their stomach with his sword while another with a massive shield beheaded the other mage. Cassandra barreled down on the one with the shield, taunting him to focus on her. Suddenly, the knight turned on Solas. He drained his mana and Solas fell to his knees, gasping, clutching his chest with one hand and staff with the other.

She cried out, ran, and flung herself between the mage and his attacker. She planted her feet, pulled her bowstring taut, and held her breath. The Templar charged. Elaria’s arrow caught him in the hollow of his throat just between his helm and gorget. He choked, made a disgusting gurgling sound and crashed to the ground in a heap of metal.

Another Templar roared somewhere to her right and ran, slamming into her shoulder. She flew back, her bow landing several feet away in the grass. She rolled onto her stomach and reached for it but was yanked back by her ankle. The Templar flipped her onto her back, pushed her down with his boot, its weight crushing her ribs. Stars erupted behind her eyes. She struggled against him, beat his leg with her fists and thrashed her legs. But he was heavy, so heavy. He raised his sword in both hands, tip pointed down, aimed directly at her heart.

He froze mid-thrust, encased in ice. She was trapped. Cassandra appeared within seconds, shoving the Templar over. _Thunk_! He crashed to the ground and the warrior promptly speared him through the neck with her blade.

“That’s the end of it,” Cassandra said. She sheathed her sword and pulled Elaria to her feet, both women panting heavily.

Sweat dripped from her brow, stinging her eyes. Bodies lay strewn about her in the dirt, covered in blood and gore. Twisted figures – some in robes, some in heavy plate – weapons tossed about, limbs contorted at unnatural angles, some dismembered. Random mage-fires still blazed among the clumps of brush and debris. Time slowed, her vision tunneled.

“Herald?” Cassandra called to her.

She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears, chest tight with panic. All sound became muted and distant. O, Falon’Din, Lethanavir, guide my feet. Calm my soul… She’d just killed a person, not a demon. Not an animal to bring home for the clan. A _person_. A thinking, feeling being with loved ones somewhere who would never see them again. Because of her.

“Herald!” 

_Thwack!_

Pain bloomed across her cheek, sharp, stinging, and angry. Her eyes flew open and found a different pair an inch in front of hers, brown ones filled with worry.

“Wh–what?”

“I’m sorry, Herald. You were not responding. We called you several times. I had to… hit you,” Cassandra said matter-of-factly, gripping Elaria’s biceps. She glanced over the Seeker’s shoulder. Varric stood a few feet behind, looking concerned and a little angry. Solas’s expression was indecipherable, lips drawn thin, not quite scowling, eyes aflame behind a mask of calm. Her hand came up to caress her cheek.

“Oh.”

“Are you going to be alright? We need to move on.”

“Yes. I’m… fine,” she said, voice monotone. Varric handed her the bow and they continued on to the Crossroads.

**~**

They met with Mother Giselle and Corporal Vale and headed west, immediately thrust back into battle, fighting and walking the remainder of the day without rest. A useful distraction, though, constantly moving. By the time they reached Redcliffe Farms, they’d closed two rifts, infiltrated and shut down a Templar encampment, slew a group of surprisingly well-organized and well-armed bandits, and completely exhausted their potion supply.

Dennet said he’d help the Inquisition if they made the area safe for his farmers and horses first. They set up a new camp at the eastern corner of the farmstead to eat, resupply, rest, and discuss their next steps. Elaria refused to leave the Hinterlands until they’d aided the refugees. People were in need of food, shelter, blankets and healing supplies. They were desperate and dying. The mage-Templar war could not be allowed to continue. After the impromptu meeting concluded, Solas approached her.

“Herald? A word.” He led Elaria to the edge of the camp where they could speak somewhat privately.

“What you did today was foolish,” he said.

“What?” Her eyebrows arched. She was taken aback by the patronizing tone.

“You jumped in front of a Templar. With a _bow_.” He scowled. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared back. How dare he!

“I killed him, didn’t I? _With my bow_.”

His lips curled and eyes flashed dangerously. The most emotion she'd ever seen from him. “And you were promptly disarmed if I recall. I fail to understand why you, the only one with the ability to close the Breach, would put yourself in harm’s way unnecessarily. I can handle myself, da’len, as you have surely seen.”

“First of all,” she said through clenched teeth, “I am _not_ a _child_. When I saw that Templar drain your mana… It’s not that I question your ability, Solas. But I could not stand by and watch you die, either.”

He paused at that, studying her face. “Had you ever killed another before today?”

She averted her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. She would not cry. She would not cry. “No,” she said. “And now I have killed many. That is the price we pay for war, is it not? The price I pay for joining this cause.”

“Lethal'lan…” Long, graceful but strong fingers caressed the line of her jaw. He turned her face back to his but she refused to meet his eyes. If she did, she’d break. His hand lingered for but a moment and then withdrew, rejected. He turned sharply and went to his tent.

Elaria sighed, shaking her head, and went to sit beside Varric by the campfire. She quietly chewed on her thumbnail, mulling over the conversation. She hadn't meant to come across so petulant, but his tone brought out the emotional response. Was she not already at risk, here? What difference did it make, her position in battle? 

Frontline or no, a fight was a fight. And she could not stand the thought of watching any of her companions fall. They'd only been traveling together a short time, but she'd already grown to care for and respect them. Solas, with his stoic, thoughtful nature. Varric with his roguish charm. And Cassandra, with her faithful vigilance.

It was a remarkably peaceful night, a stark contrast to the hectic day. The fire crackling before her, the chirping of insects in the distant darkness, the soft breeze blowing through the tall trees and gentle trickle of the nearby stream, their united song soothing and calm.

Varric rocked slightly to the side, nudging her with his shoulder. “Now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up all right? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

She tore her eyes away from the flames. He was smiling, but it didn’t quite dispel the concern in his eyes. He wasn’t just asking her about the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or the mark. He’d witnessed her breakdown by the Crossroads. Just like Solas, he knew she’d never seen battle, not like this, before today.

“I don’t even want to think about all the lives lost. Between the Conclave and this war...”

“Yeah... ‘Bad for moral’ would be an understatement.”

“Why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go.”

“I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

She hugged her arms. “Neither can I. But honestly, I’m still not sure I believe that any of this is really happening.”

“If this is all just the Maker winding us up, I hope there is a damn good punchline coming.” He sighed. “I don’t know, you might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

Elaria looked down at the swirling scar that now marred the flesh of her palm. Was this the miracle they needed, or merely a curse? Why was _she_ chosen to bear the mark? _Was_ she chosen? She didn’t even believe in the Maker, but now… Everything she’d ever believed, everything she’d ever been taught, every choice she’d made up to now was called into question. She volunteered to go to the Conclave. She’d wanted freedom, adventure. To prove herself. But not like this.

Heart pounding, she stood abruptly, hands clenched into fists. “I… I need a moment.” She ran out past the tents, past the light of the fire. Once she’d put enough distance between her and the camp she dropped to her hands and knees and vomited. Her entire body convulsed, violently purging everything she’d eaten that night.

Wave after wave of nausea washed over her, unwanted images flooding her mind. The bodies on the mountaintop, some wrapped and bound, some burned and gnarled beyond recognition. The Templars, mages, and refugees here in the Hinterlands, butchered mercilessly, bodies flung about, bloody, dismembered, frozen. 

It hurt, ached, tore at her soul. So much death. So much destruction. She curled into a ball beside the sordid puddle and sobbed, arms clutching her sides in a desperate bid for comfort. But nothing could ease the pain in her heart. This was real. It was all real. And she was completely, utterly alone. Lost. Afraid. So far from the comfort and safety of her clan.

She cried until her body could produce no more tears. Throat raw, eyes swollen and sore. Listening to the stillness. Water rushing in the distance, wind rustling against crisp, green leaves. The tittering of a fennec somewhere nearby. Previously comforting sounds that now expounded upon the hammering within her skull. 

A hand gently squeezed her shoulder. How long had she been there, huddled on her side in the fetal position? Maybe hours. She peeked out from under the arm that covered her face.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up,” Varric whispered.

She didn't argue. The dwarf led her back to her tent and laid her on the bedroll, still sniffling and whimpering. He pulled the covers up, tucking it close around her neck. Varric stayed beside her, silent, gently plucking and combing the dirt and leaves from her hair until she drifted into a restless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the angst! It will get better, I promise! 
> 
> Over the next few chapters, Elaria spends some time in Haven getting to know her companions and coming to terms with her new life.


	5. A Chance Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**   
_Mildly NSFW, nothing graphic  
Implied Masturbation  
PTSD symptoms  
Minor Anxiety attack_

Darkness settled across the Frostback Mountains as the sun retreated beyond the distant horizon, its golden light replaced by the ethereal silver-blue glow of twin moons. Haven… _Home_. Strange, to think of it as such. But yes, this was home now. It had to be.

Clan Lavellan never stayed in one place for too long, and thus, Elaria was molded from birth to adapt to her constantly changing environment. It came as naturally to her as a river’s water flowed downstream, or the branches of an old tree bent in the wind. A lifetime on her feet made it easier to call home wherever her travels took her.

Still, she missed her clan and her family. Her babae, Aenaran and twin Da’riel. Especially her brother, for there was no other in all of her six-and-twenty years she held so dear. They were two halves of the same whole, soul mates of a shared womb. What was he doing now? Did he worry for her, as she did for him? Would he look for her once he received word of the Conclave’s destruction?

Part of her hoped it to be true, craved his soothing presence. His strength and wit, the easy way he made her laugh and forget her troubles. But it also scared her. Between the rupture in the sky and the current war, he’d be in too much danger here. And if he knew of the now-many battles she’d fought, or how many more probably lay ahead of her, he would affix himself to her side and never leave. Likely after a very long, heated lecture wherein he asserted himself as the minutes-older sibling, wholly responsible for her safety.

The thought brought a weary smile to her lips as she parted with her similarly exhausted companions, bound feet crunching over the hard-packed, grey, dirty snow, following the footpath through Haven’s gates. Her steps were steady, but heavy, carrying the weight of Andraste’s recent burden. She went directly to her cabin on stiff, leaden legs, body bruised and sore, covered in a thick layer of sweat and dust. The room was chilly and dim, lit only by the one small torch on the wall. She turned around and closed the door, leaning her head against the cold wood. Took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly.

“My lady!”

She spun and whipped the bow from her back, poised to fight or flee. The brown-haired elvhen woman from her first day in Haven stood behind her clutching a large, heavy bundle. Her arms were too full; as she bowed, something fell and rolled toward Elaria’s feet.

“Sorry!” the elf sank to the floor, trembling, head lowered.

“Oh! No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Please get up.” Elaria bent down and picked up a small wooden log. “What are you doing in here?”

“The Lady Montilyet said I was to help you when you got back. ‘Prepare the fire’, she said!”

She struggled to her feet, still balancing the rest of the wood, and walked to the opposite end of the cabin to kneel in front of the fireplace. Elaria uncorked the wine bottle on the table, sat in the chair and took a long swig. Warmth spread through her chest, easing her nerves somewhat, but not enough.

An elvhen _servant_? She doubted the kind-hearted, friendly Antivan realized it could come across as offensive. It was more probable that Josephine thought how strange it was for her, being surrounded by shemlen all the time. That maybe the presence of another elf would bring her comfort. These city elves were strange to her, though. She’d had limited interaction with them in her travels, less actually than with humans, as they largely kept to themselves within the alienages.

She frequently snuck off to visit shemlen towns and villages as a da’len, hidden under shadowed hoods, to trade and converse. She and Da’riel made a game of it, for a time. They practiced different accents to disguise their voices, painted over their vallaslin and hid their ears with hair and hoods. Tried to see who could pass for human the longest. She did it to feed her curiosity, but Da’riel did it because he found it genuinely amusing to trick the shems.

Keeper Deshanna was displeased, to say the least, and scolding lectures became commonplace throughout their youth. She said they put the clan’s safety at risk as much as their own. But neither of them ever functioned well under the oppressive thumb of authority, or, frankly, monotony. Luckily, their combined charisma spared them from punishment more often than they deserved.

She took another swig of the wine, turning toward the elf currently poking lazily at the fire. “What is your name?”

Her eyes widened. “My – my name is Elowyn, my lady.”

“Where are you from?”

“Me? I – I am from Denerim.”

“From the alienage, I assume? What brought you all the way to Haven?”

“My Mistress came for the Conclave, my lady. She...” Elowyn trailed off.

“Oh,” she said, and bit her tongue. So she was dead, and took with her the elf’s livelihood. Elowyn was just as stuck in her new circumstances, if not more so, than Elaria was. 

She extended her hand. “Well… it’s a pleasure to meet you, Elowyn.” The elf stared at it, confused and slightly horrified, until Elaria gave up and withdrew with a sigh. “Look… You don’t have to bow or kneel, or call me ‘my lady’ or ‘Herald’. If you are going to help me here, I’d like you to do so as a friend, not as my… _servant_. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable. So please, call me Elaria.”

“I… if you say so my – Elaria.”

She grinned. “Tell me, then. There’s no running water here like there was in the Hinterlands. Everything is frozen. So where does everyone bathe?”

“There’s a bathhouse behind the tavern.”

“That’s… strange,” she said, eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. “Everyone bathes in a _house_?”

“Yes, my lady. The water is heated by wood-burning furnaces under the floor. The kitchen ovens help keep the building warm.”

“Is this house still, uh, open this late?”

“Yes, my lady,” she said, reverting to the habitual title usage. “Most of the workers don’t leave their shifts till late in the evening, so it stays open well past the last bell.”

“Alright… um… can you show me? I’d like to get cleaned up.”

“Of course!”

She stood and started removing her armor. Elowyn immediately batted her hands away, fussing over her like a mother would a child. She began unbuckling clasps, pulling pieces off, shushing Elaria’s nervous giggling. It was amusing. Elowyn could be so deferential and skittish one moment but stubborn and overbearing the next.

She stripped down to bare skin and pulled on a simple, calf-length night shift and her coat to wear to the bathhouse. Elowyn handed her a towel and led the way to the tavern. Sure enough, there was a smaller building attached in the back with two separate doorways. She indicated that one door in particular was for the women and the other for men.

“Will you be alright from here, my lady? I’d like to clean your armor while you bathe.”

Elaria frowned. “You don’t have to do that, Elowyn. I can clean my own armor.”

“Please! You’re the Herald of Andraste, my lady. This is a great honor. I want to help. As… your… friend,” she said the last part with great difficulty, as though the words themselves were foreign to her tongue.

“I suppose." She sighed, resigned to the elf's subservience and the title. Exhaustion overwhelmed her desire to argue it further at present. "Thank you.”

The room was larger than she’d expected, dimly lit but very warm and humid. Almost uncomfortably so. Two rows of wooden benches lined the walls. A large rectangular pool of steaming water built into the stone floor took up most of the space in the center of the room.

Two young women sat together along the far end, scrubbing themselves, gossiping. One with blonde hair, the other a redhead with wild curls. They paid her little mind, likely presuming her to be another servant since her silver vallaslin was not easily visible from a distance. 

Snippets of the conversation she caught seemed to involve "Inquisition men" being the death of them and, in particular, a captain with an accent that made the redhead weak in the knees.

Elaria stripped, piled her clothes onto the bench, stretched languidly and stepped into the steaming water on the side opposite the other women. She’d never had a _hot_ bath before, not full submerged like this. Just out of basins with a cloth, when it was too cold to do so in a river. Some of these shemlen ways were rather… pleasant, actually. Warm beds and hot baths.

The redhead giggled. “That Commander though… ain’t he a sight.” They were speaking very low, but with her elvhen ears, she heard the conversation clearly. She dipped her hair into the pool and combed through it with her fingers.

“Maker, yes. He’s so _big_, too. I wonder if he’s big everywhere,” said the blonde. They laughed again, cheeks and chests flushed, though whether from the heat or the subject of discussion it was difficult to tell. Elaria blushed, turned her head away so they couldn’t see. Were they seriously discussing the size of Cullen's– 

“Pity he keeps to ‘imself so,” the redhead clucked. “I’ve 'eard ‘im orderin’ those poor sods about. You think he’s like that in bed? All… _commandin’_, like?”

“Mmm, I hope so. You know, he comes in from time to time for a brandy or two.”

“Don’t tell me you’re goin’ after ‘im too?”

“And why not?”

Elaria’s gut twisted into an uncomfortable knot and she gasped quietly, bewildered. An unfamiliar feeling, akin to… anger, maybe? Aggravation? But different, somehow. The women rose out of the water and sat on the bench, drying themselves.

“You’re daft! Man's got near every woman in the Inquisition wrapped around his... well, _you know_," red chortled, "But he don't give any of 'em the time of day, so far as I've 'eard."

“A handsome, warm-blooded Fereldan man like that? Someone ought to be stoking his fire.”

“Mm-hmm. Be a real shame for ‘is talents to go to waste. You know what they say about that _Templar stamina_.”

The blonde laughed and tossed her waist-length hair over her shoulder, revealing immense, plump breasts. Much different from hers, which spilled over her own palms but were nowhere near so large. Would they still be attractive to a human man? Wait – why was she even thinking of that? And comparing herself to this woman? By the Dales…

She tuned the women out, returning to her ministrations. Scrubbed the filth from her body until her skin was flushed, pink and raw. She did not look up again until they’d dressed and left. Exhaling a sigh of relief, she relaxed against the pool wall, arms draped over the ledge behind her. Every inch of her tingled, warm and sensitive.

So… the Commander. Cullen, the Templar. Or, ex-Templar. He didn’t look hardened or battle-weary in the way she’d expect from a warrior general. Signs of age showed in the corners of his eyes, but there was still a boyish youthfulness about his face; he couldn’t have been more than thirty.

He was… alright, yes, he was handsome. Very much so. Hooded eyes, perfectly curved lips, strong jaw. And tall, so very tall. There was something incredibly enticing about the size of the man. How easy it would be for him to encompass her completely, overpower her and… Wasn’t it wrong to think of a shemlen that way? The Dalish were quite strict about fraternization with humans. Preservation of the elvhen race and culture always came first. Though, come to think of it, her own brother broke that taboo regularly.

Maybe it had simply been too long. Elaria was no blushing virgin, but even then, such trysts weren’t common among the Dalish - well, at least not the women. Not only was privacy fleeting, but there were social mores to consider, standards females expected potential partners to achieve. Coming of age rituals and such. Did the humans have these, as well? Whatever those tests may be, clearly the Commander had passed them with flying colors.

The memory of his leather-clad hand wrapped around hers, firm but tender, had crossed her mind more than once in the last few weeks. The feeling of his soft, sensuous lips pressing gently against her fingers contrasting with the rough scratch of his stubble. Elvhen men didn’t grow hair on their chins like humans and dwarves. What would it feel like under her fingers? Or scratching against her cheek, her throat, her breasts? What did his lips taste like? It was a realm never before explored, a mystery begging to be solved. Forbidden, and thus, oh so tantalizing. Perhaps why Da'riel had been so intrigued...

Slowly, one arm lowered to breach the water’s steaming surface. A curious hand ghosted across her stomach, down her thigh. Fingers wound themselves through dark, springy curls, the only other hair on her otherwise smooth body. They dipped lower, teasing and light, brushing gently like a whisper across the apex of her thighs...

**~**

No matter how many hours Cullen dedicated to the stack of parchment on his desk, it only ever seemed to multiply rather than decrease. He retrieved the sand sifter and sprinkled a bit of the substance over the letter he’d just drafted. Curved the paper, shook it gently, and dumped the sand back into the small pot. Set the quill in its well. Pinched the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. Maker, his head ached. Pounded, more like.

Grasping the cup on the corner of the desk, he lifted it to mildly chapped lips. The familiar, sweet flavor of his favorite brandy, smooth but slightly stinging, slid down his throat. He exhaled slowly, returning the empty cup to its place, scooted his chair back from the desk and stretched his limbs. Stiff as tree trunks and possibly just as heavy, still clad in armor because, yet again, he’d neglected to remove it. He did so now, placing each piece reverently on its stand. That armor was like a second skin to him now, and an emblem of pride. A symbol of the man he wanted to be, of everything he wanted to accomplish and atone for.

He put on his cloak, gathered his favorite soap, a towel, and fresh sleeping clothes, and left the cabin. The streets were empty, quiet and dark. He loved the peace and stillness of the night, so different from the constant bustle and noise of Haven when the sun loomed overhead. The sky was clear, stars shining brightly. The scent of long put-out wood fires and distant pine needles wafting through the crisp mountain air, comforting and familiar.

When he reached the bathhouse, two women emerged, laughing. They stopped when they saw him. “Ladies,” he said, nodding his head politely.

“Evening, Commander,” they said simultaneously, grinning ear to ear.

“Uh… yes. Good evening.”

They were both young, though probably not much younger than him. One with an untamed, short mop of curly red hair, small stature, wide hips and plump curves. The other he recognized from The Singing Maiden; tall, with long, wavy flaxen locks, narrow hips and a disproportionately large bust visible even through her cloak.

The blonde stepped forward. “I don’t know if you remember me, Ser. My name is Katlyn, and this,”–she gestured to the redhead–“is my friend–”

“Maribelle,” said the other woman, also taking a step closer.

“Ah, Katlyn. Yes, I remember you.” He looked at the other woman. “A pleasure to meet you, Maribelle.” The women shot each other an oddly conspiratorial look and moved closer, sultry gazes turning on him and drifting down his body. He shifted his weight and glanced at the bathhouse door, blushing under their scrutiny. “Well, I –”

“I've missed you at the tavern lately. Think you'll be stopping by anytime soon, Commander?” Katlyn asked, twirling her hair with one slender finger.

“I, uh…” he cleared his throat, “I don’t know. Perhaps.” Were they _flirting_ with him? Maribelle’s hand fluttered up his forearm, the arm holding his things, fingertips caressing his skin through the cloth.

“Or perhaps we could ‘elp you relax some… other way,” she said, looking up through lowered lids, a seductive smile playing across her lips. His pulse thrummed in his ears, blood pumping furiously. Yes. Definitely flirting.

Suddenly Katlyn was touching his other arm. She curled her arm around his, threading it through so his tense bicep was pressed between her breasts. “Mm, yes… You work so _hard_, after all. Taking care of everyone in Haven… but who takes care of you, _Commander_?”

Andraste preserve him! “I – uh – what?” he said, voice pitched abnormally high. The women giggled. His chest tightened. Heart pounding, face on fire; he was surrounded, caged. Had to get away. Taking a step back, he extracted himself from their grasp.

“I –” his voice broke, “I should go. Please, excuse me.”

He rushed toward the door in two long strides, not bothering to look back as they gasped in surprise behind him. He bolted inside the building and, thank the Maker, found it empty. Expelling a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he leaned against the door, tilting his head up until the back of it touched the wood behind him. Panting lightly, his eyes squeezed shut.

He had to calm down. Breathe. Deep breath in, and exhale. Yes, good. Cullen had needs the same as any man, but he wanted – no, he needed – to be the one in control. Not caught off-guard or... hunted, like a piece of meat. He shook his head to clear it. No use dwelling on that now.

Pushing away from the door, he set his things down and undressed carefully, slowly, fingers trembling. Then, he slipped into the water and groaned, loud and unabashed. He melted into its embrace, the heat seeping into his flesh and soothing the aching muscles within. Kneading his neck and shoulders with strong, calloused fingers, he moaned again as the tension slowly eased.

He ducked below the steaming surface and quickly breached, face turned toward the ceiling. Ran his hands through his hair, dragged them down his face to rub the water from his eyes. Stretched out his limbs and sat back against the edge where he’d placed his soap. He washed with military precision, lathering the soap between rough hands and running them over his body in quick, efficient strokes.

Once finished, he dried off and dressed in his sleeping clothes – a light, off-white linen shirt and matching trousers that left ankles bare due to his awkward height. After draping his cloak back over his shoulders and slipping into his boots, he bundled the dirty clothing and bathing supplies together, carried under one arm, and opened the door.

The rush of frigid air was a shock compared to the humidity inside, immediately waking him from the drowsy lull that had taken over whilst in the soothing water. Goosebumps prickled up across the length of him, stimulating and oddly refreshing. He turned around to pull the door closed. A noise, to his right, drew his attention. The creaking wood of another door, the soft crunch of a foot against the fresh, thin layer of snowfall.

His head swiveled right, body following seconds behind. And there, exiting the women’s baths, was the Herald, barefoot and glistening under the moonlight. Pointed ears standing out against the backdrop of silver hair, still dripping, piled into a loose bun atop her head. Body twisted to face him, hand still on the door handle, head turned away toward the evening sky. Her coat unbuttoned and hanging open over a – sweet holy Andraste. A nightdress.

A sheer, white nightdress, which draped loosely over her petite but supple curves, beguiling and incredibly sensual. Its low neckline offered to his open gaze the top of her perky breasts, and just beneath, through the fabric, the outline and slightly darkened shadow of erect nipples. He forced his eyes upward, cheeks growing hot, fighting and failing to control the southward direction of his blood flow.

“Maker have mercy...” he blurted, shifting the bundle from under his arm to hold it in front of his groin. “Herald, um...”

She froze in place and stared, wide-eyed, mouth open with an unspoken “oh” and a flash of what looked like guilt. Or maybe just embarrassment. Under the bright moonlight, her cheeks were obviously pink, matching the flush the cold brought to the delicate tip of her nose. Had she seen him staring?

“Herald? Are you alright?” He stepped closer.

She blinked her eyes, startled out of her reverie, and pulled her coat closed, arms folding over her chest. “Oh, uh, yes. Sorry. I didn’t… expect to see you here.”

He arched an eyebrow. “At the bathhouse? Do you think so lowly of my hygiene?”

“Creators, no!” Her already large eyes widened further. “I didn’t mean it like that!” He chuckled – a low, hearty rumble from deep within his chest. She pursed her lips.

“Are you teasing me, Commander?”

“Yes. Forgive me.” He bowed from the waist, grinning.

“You’re terrible.”

“Quite.”

She giggled, raising one hand, fingers loosely curled, in front of her lips. “It’s good to know there’s some humor buried under all that muscle.” She looked him over appreciatively. He stood a bit straighter, pectorals flexing beneath his shirt and the open flaps of his cloak, and smirked.

“I’m not always, oh, how does Varric put it? A ‘stick-in-the-mud’? Don’t tell anyone, though; my sense of humor is a closely-guarded secret. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

She laughed again, louder this time, and did not hide behind her hand. Pride bloomed within his chest, warm and gratifying. He’d made her laugh, what, three times now? It was such a lovely sound, made even more so by the attractiveness of the person creating it.

“Might I escort you to your quarters, my lady? Mine are right next door.”

He’d ordered her to be placed in the cabin next to his after closing the rift the Temple. Cassandra agreed that it was a good place for her, so one of the Inquisition’s inner circle could stay close. For her protection, of course. And who better to keep her safe than the Commander of their army? By the Herald’s surprised expression, no one had informed her of the situation.

“Oh…” She smiled shyly and looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Yes, thank you.”

Thankfully, the embarrassing swelling in his trousers had subsided by then and he was able to move the bundle back to its previous position. He gestured with his free arm and they began walking side by side. “You know, we’ve received a number of recruits – locals from Haven, and some pilgrims,” he said, with a sideways glance her direction. “None made _quite_ the entrance you did.”

She shrugged and smiled, eyes briefly meeting his. “At least I got everyone’s attention.”

“That you did,” he smirked. “I was recruited to the Inquisition in Kirkwall, myself. I was there during the mage uprising – I saw firsthand the devastation it caused. When Cassandra offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.” They stopped outside of the Herald’s cabin. He adjusted the bundle beneath his arm and turned to her.

“I must have this mark for a reason...” she hesitated, staring at her hand. “It will work. I’m sure of it.” She looked up, expression optimistic.

Her natural charm and enthusiasm ran counter to the tragic circumstances. Despite her reservations, and the fact that she wasn’t even Andrastian, she’d aligned herself with their cause and stayed true to her word, bearing this new burden with incredible grace. According to the reports he’d received from the Hinterlands, she was already proving herself invaluable, eagerly helping the locals and refugees. She gave people hope.

He offered her a reassuring smile. “And I’m confident we can secure aid. The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There’s so much we can,”–he blinked and shook his head–“Forgive me. I doubt you expected a lecture.”

“No, but If you have one prepared, I’d love to hear it,” she said with a cheeky grin. He chuckled, glancing away, and ran his free hand through his still-damp locks.

“Another time, perhaps." He lowered his arm, gaze sliding back to meet hers. They lingered there, both of them smiling, his heart thrumming steadily in his chest. Maker, she had a beautiful smile. This time it was close-lipped, but wide and sincere, her pupils dilated within those sparkling eyes. There was something there, something beyond mere politeness. Perhaps… interest? Surely not. Just his wishful thinking.

Her eyes flitted down to his lips. They had been unmarked only four years prior, and now bore that horrid scar. His ever-present reminder of the Kirkwall Rebellion. What if she thought it ugly? Her expression revealed no disgust, but still, it bothered him.

“I, ah…” he cleared his throat, brow creasing slightly, and looked away. “There’s still a lot of work ahead…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I couldn't help myself. There had to be at least one bath-related scene lol (and maybe more in the future wink wink). So I gave Haven a bathhouse!
> 
> In my headcanon Haven is definitely bigger than in-game, in order to accommodate the Inquisition's army and all.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! And comments are always welcome ^_^


	6. A Comforting Presence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**  
_Light Angst_  
Mildly NSFW inner dialogue

Every day Haven filled with more refugees, driven from their homes, desperate to escape the war and the demons pouring out of the rifts. Some wished to join their cause, lend whatever skills they could; most were civilians simply struggling to survive. The Inquisition was straining its resources already, but no other organization was stepping up to help – for either lack of ability, or desire, to do so. While the clergy and nobility squabbled and bickered, the people of Thedas suffered.

Cullen waited in the Chantry with his colleagues, pacing the hall as the sun receded beyond the horizon. A scout had arrived two days ahead of the Herald’s party with information; Val Royeaux had been a disaster. The Templars made an unexpected appearance in the city, assaulted a Revered Mother, denounced the Inquisition, and withdrew to Maker-knows-where. His hope of gaining Templar support was fading.

Seceding from the Chantry was one thing, and he understood the motivation, but what were his former brothers thinking? Many joined the Inquisition rather than follow the Order down this path of chaos. Surely, some who remained must realize that such a crusade would only lead to more unnecessary bloodshed. So many innocents were getting caught in the middle. And now, with the Breach… Kirkwall was bad, but this was another thing entirely.

“It’s good you’ve returned,” said Josephine.

He stopped pacing and looked up right as Cassandra and the Herald walked through the Chantry doors. The Herald’s hair was coming undone from its tie, windswept strands jutting wildly about her face and neck. A fine layer of dust and dirt covered her armor, evidence of the arduous journey to Haven. With circles under her eyes, arms nearly limp at her sides; she looked more exhausted than upset.

“It appears we have the opening we need to approach the Templars and the mages,” said Josephine as they all started walking down the hall together.

“Do we?”–Cassandra shook her head–“Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man I remember.”

“True. He has taken the order somewhere, but to do what? My reports have been… very odd,” Leliana said.

“We must look into it. I’m certain not everyone in the Order will support the Lord Seeker,” said Cullen.

Josephine sent a cautious sidelong glance his way. “Or the Herald could simply go to meet the mages in Redcliffe instead.” He stopped in the middle of the hall and stared at her. Was she mad?

“You think the mage rebellion is more united? It could be ten times worse!” he said.

There had been infighting among mages involved with the rebellion even before the vote to dissolve the Circles, a vote that was won by a surprisingly slim margin. They’d lost much of the infrastructure and resources the Circles provided and were essentially refugees themselves. To top it off, they had children and apprentices, young unharrowed mages, among them – the mages were not trained soldiers, they were not a united, disciplined force. They were in dire need of aid themselves, not in the position to _provide_ it. But his arguments, more often than not, fell on deaf ears.

In his colleagues’ minds, his bias outweighed his logic. There would be no escaping his past, even now. To those on the outside he would always be a Templar. Not a man with the desire to protect. Did the Herald think the same? Did she see him only as a symbol of that oppression? A hammer to whom everything appeared a nail, rather than a concerned citizen wishing only to restore peace? Admittedly, force came more naturally to him than diplomacy. Nevertheless, had he not taken on the mantle of leadership in Kirkwall? Had he not negotiated a tenuous peace in the aftermath, restored order, and focused their efforts and resources on rebuilding the city?

“Or you could stop bickering and make a decision,” the Herald said, frowning at each of them in turn. Cullen bristled at her scolding tone. And the Seeker agreed with her! He scowled indignantly, folding his arms over his chest. Arguing was pointless, and either way, he doubted they had enough influence to approach the mages or the Templars yet. There was still much work to be done.

The sky was dark as he left the Chantry. The Frostbacks loomed in the distance, casting long, jagged shadows over the stronghold to interrupt the moonlight lighting his path. Trees rustled with the chilling breeze that swept loose upper layers of frost at his feet into swirling patterns across the stone. A quiet, still night that belied the turmoil occurring beyond Haven’s walls, or even that within his own mind.

That peaceful silence was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps softly crunching behind him, steps imbued with the practiced lightness of one used to stealth. “Herald,” he said, turning to face her. He nodded stiffly, half-expecting her to continue the earlier argument.

“Commander! I… um…” She cast her eyes shyly downward. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“Not at all.” They started walking toward the stairs. “Forgive me if I seem out of sorts. It has been a trying week.”

“For you and me both,” she sighed. “I fear Cassandra is handling it worse than I… but what about you? I know you have your heart set on allying with the Templars.”

“I… I do sympathize with the Order’s frustrations. The Chantry has taken them for granted far too long. Templars risk their lives against blood magic, demons, abominations – only to feel as if those efforts are dismissed… Regardless, I disagree with the Order’s actions. That I’m here is proof of that. This war benefits no one – and innocent people caught in the middle are paying the highest price for the Chantry’s failures.”

He paused, frowning. “If you do not mind my asking, what _specifically_ did Lord Seeker Lucius say to you?”

“Hm,” she hummed, and then her voice took on a deep, low timbre to mimic Lucius, “'you should all be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is _mine_’ and ‘_I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void–’” Cullen stopped walking as her words sank in.

“That… that arrogant fool!” he growled, hands balling into fists. Anger and disgust boiled deep within his gut, a blinding hot rage that begged for release. He needed to vent, he needed to hurt something, someone. Suddenly he turned to the wall at his left and, with a furious roar, smashed his gauntleted fist into the stone. The Herald’s breath hitched and she took a step back.

“Commander, I…”

“_Don’t_!” he snarled. 

His mind raced in time to the rushing blood in his veins, the rapid pounding of his heart. Pain – sudden, sharp, and nearly as angry as he lanced through his temple like an arrow through flesh. The Order had truly fallen to corruption, arrogance, blind hatred. Was there more going on here than they initially thought? The red lyrium at the Temple of Sacred Ashes… What if it had something to do with this? Had the Lord Seeker gone mad like Knight-Commander Meredith? 

“So this is what the Order has become?” he muttered, turning his face away from the Herald. He hadn’t meant to snap at her, to lose control. None of this was her fault, she didn’t deserve his fury. _Lucius_ did. The Chantry. He stepped up to the wall and rested his forehead against the cold, smooth rock beside his still-curled fist, body shuddering with each breath.

He was a disciplined man, and very rarely lost his temper like this. Between lyrium withdrawal, constant stress, and now this with the Templars… Cullen was angry. That anger scared him, and the fear, the rage and despair, fed one another in a vicious cycle, growing larger and entrenching deeper until the combination overwhelmed him.

Thankfully, no one else was outside at that late hour to witness his disgraceful breach of decorum. But the Herald, of all people, had seen. He remained there, forehead pressed against the wall, too afraid to look at her. To see the expression on her face. What must she think of him now? Would she recoil in disgust? Would she be angry, or worse, pity him?

The silence that had been peaceful only moments ago became deafening. Cold air swept across his sweat-dampened his brow. He took one long, deep breath, exhaled shakily, and then another. His many years of training had not been all for naught, and he drew upon it now, and the Chant, his constant anchor in the turbulent sea of his tortured, fragmented mind.

_ Though all before me is shadow,_

_ Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

_ I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._

_ For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_

_ And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

_ I am not alone. Even_

_ As I stumble on the path_

_ With my eyes closed, yet I see_

_ The Light is here._

A touch, tender and cautious, against the back of his unwounded hand. Fingers, small and delicate. He unclenched his fists, opened his eyes and looked at the woman beside him. Eyes, beautiful and shimmering with unspilled tears, stared into his. Yet she smiled, timid and sweet, laced her fingers through his and gently squeezed. A question. He squeezed back, permission granted. Maker, when was the last time someone held his hand? Mia… yes. The day they said goodbye for the last time.

The Herald looked down at their interlocked fingers, the faintest blush painting her porcelain cheeks. “Will you come with me? Please?”

The breath rushed from his lungs. “Yes,” he whispered. He was not alone… the light was here. _Her_ light.

She led him to her cabin then and pulled him inside. It was warm and dim, the walls aglow with flickering orange light from the hearth’s fire. She let go of his hand and pushed him, by his breastplate, nonchalantly toward the bed.

“Um… uh…” he stammered.

She pointed at the bed and with an imploring look. “Please… Sit.” He obeyed, perching near the foot of the bed on the side facing the opposite wall. “Do you mind if I get comfortable? It’s been a long trip. I’m still not used to wearing... so many layers.”

“No! Not at all,” he said, heat rushing into his cheeks, pace quickening. She was going to “get comfortable”. Oh, Maker.

Cullen forced his eyes away and began analyzing the room that was now her private space. The Herald had not been in Haven long enough to put any unique touches on the place, and she had no personal effects to speak of after the Conclave aside from her bow and armor. It was simple yet cozy, decorated in typical Ferelden style with animal pelts on the walls and wooden furniture. It was similar to his own cabin, but there was an actual bed – bigger than his cot, but still small.

Without an ounce of shyness or discomfort, she stripped down to her leathers and white linen tunic. She grabbed two small mugs off the mantle of the fireplace, set them on a table across from where he sat, and quietly shuffled about, though doing what he hadn’t a clue. Cullen’s curiosity got the best of him and his eyes gravitated back to her as she bent over to grab a small jar on the far end of the table.

“Maker’s breath!” he whispered, low enough she didn’t hear.

The leather of her breeches hugged her slender curves like another skin. Her bottom, round and firm, her thighs clenching and flexing as she stretched across the table. His own leathers were growing uncomfortably tight. It was highly inappropriate, staring at her in such a position, but damned if he didn’t want to cross the room, pin her against that table and-

“Aha!” Elaria turned around holding the jar, a roll of white material, and a rag. His eyes snapped upward, face burning hot. But she just grinned, immensely self-satisfied and completely oblivious to his plight. She uncorked a wine bottle and poured a generous amount into the two mugs on the table. She handed him a cup, then got down on her knees in front of him.

“May I?” she asked, pointing to his injured hand.

“Ah – alright…”

She sat up, leaned dangerously close to his lap and removed the glove tenderly so as not to hurt him. She opened the jar and dipped the rag into it. Then, holding his hand in hers, softly dabbed a cool poultice onto his knuckles. Two fingers were rougher than the rest, the ones she used to draw her bow, and the opposite palm where she held it bore similar callouses. Yet her hands were still soft as silk compared to his own, and tiny in comparison.

“Go ahead,”–she motioned to the cup–“It may ease your nerves a little.” Cullen gulped the whole thing down; savored the sweet yet bitter flavor on his tongue and the warmth it spread through his chest. The floral scent emanating from her body, her gentle caresses, and the soothing sensation of the healing poultice against his bruised and battered skin were nearly as inebriating as the wine.

The top of her tunic was partly unlaced, its thin material opening as she leaned forward to reveal the narrow valley between her breasts. He closed his eyes, willed his thoughts to calm, but still, they roamed. Was the rest of her body equally soft, or more so? What would those heavenly, silken hands feel like on his face? Running through his hair? Over his back?

She kneaded the back of his hand with her thumbs, the pressure light, humming a tune he didn’t recognize. Maker, let his layers of leather and armor be enough to hide his arousal. A soft moan escaped his lips, and he opened his eyes just as she began wrapping his hand with a thin layer of gauze.

“How does that feel?” she whispered demurely.

“G–good…” he croaked, mouth suddenly dry. “Better.”

Finished, she put the healing supplies away and took the cup from him to pour another while he removed his other glove. She gave it to him and set the wine bottle on a barrel between the bed and the fireplace. Holding her cup, she sat with her back against the headboard, curling her legs under her. They toasted, and both sipped their wine in silence.

“Cullen?” Maker, his name sounded so wonderful on her lips. “Are you alright?”

He offered her a weary smile. “Yes. Are you?”

“I’m… adjusting. I’m not sure where I fit into all this or that I can be of much use.”

“It must be difficult. But I – _we_ are glad you decided to stay.”

“Oh… thank you.” She blushed prettily and chewed her bottom lip, watching him, swirling her wine around in the cup. She took a sip. “May I ask - why did you become a Templar?”

“I could think of no better calling than to protect those in need. I used to beg the Templars at our local Chantry to teach me. At first, they merely humored me, but I must have shown promise. Or – at least a willingness to learn. The Knight-Captain spoke to my parents on my behalf. They agreed to send me for training. I was thirteen when I left home.”

“Creators! Only thirteen?”

“I wasn’t the youngest there. Some children are promised to the Order at infancy. Still, I didn’t take on full responsibilities until I was eighteen. The Order sees you trained and educated first.”

“Didn’t you miss your family?” She placed her cup beside her on the barrel and stood, stretching languidly.

“Uh–“ His eyes, hidden from her view, roamed over her backside. “Of course. But there were many my age who felt the same. We learned to look out for one another.”

She refilled both their cups again and lay on her side across the width of the bed, elbow bent to prop up her head, cup in the opposite hand. Laying as she did, one leg bent slightly over the other, only accentuated the provocative curve of her hip.

“What about you?” he asked, taking another drink. “You traveled some distance to reach Haven. Is this the first time you’ve ever left your clan?”

“Yes... It feels strange to be away. Even stranger to be a part of”-she gestured with the cup-"all this."

“It does, at times. I’m still getting used to it myself. It’s been… interesting.”

She laughed. “To say the least.”

Cullen grinned. Four times. Four times he’d made her laugh. Was he really still counting? But it was such a blessed sound, husky, sensual, and it _did things_ to him. Their eyes locked and his heart skipped a beat, a pleasant, warm sensation spreading through his chest not unlike that from the wine. Her gaze drifted down to his lips for a moment, then darted away and she took another sip of her wine.

He put his cup on the little round table at the foot of the bed and started removing his cloak, glancing at her. “Do you mind?”

She smiled from behind her cup and shook her head. He unhooked his cuirass, removed his vambraces and pauldrons, and placed the armor with his cloak on the table. When he scooted back on the bed to lean against the wall, his legs were so long that his boots still hung off the end. Retrieving the wine, he exhaled and relaxed his posture. It was odd, actually, how comfortable and satisfying it was just to be around her. She was all softness and light, compassion and beauty, her very presence intoxicating.

They talked for what felt like hours, about his youth and hers, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire and the song the wind created as it gently lapped over the cabin’s exterior. What it was like for her to sleep under the stars every night; about the Dalish landships she called “aravels” and her adventures with her brother. He told her what it was like to train as a Templar, about life in the barracks as a young recruit, and the trouble his brethren often dragged him into.

The wine loosened his tongue and emboldened his gaze, which now wandered lazily over her body, from her hips to the curves of her breasts. When he made it up to her face, he caught her staring similarly… at his _lap_. Maker, was it hot in here or was it just him? He spread his legs a bit wider and brought one hand to rest against his thigh.

“Uh, so…” Her eyes darted away and she cleared her throat. “Do Templars take vows? ‘I swear to the Maker to watch all the mages’ – that sort of thing?”

“There’s a vigil first, and when it’s over, you give yourself to a life of service. That’s when you’re given a philter – your first draught of lyrium – and its power. As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgment. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen,” he said, raising his wine cup again to his lips.

“A life of service and sacrifice. Are Templars also expected to give up… _physical_ temptations?”

He nearly choked on the wine as his heart leapt into his throat and a flush blossomed from his neck upward. “Physical? Why…” He swallowed and cleared his throat. “Why would you… That’s not expected. Templars _can_ marry – although there are rules about it, and the Order must grant permission…”

A flash of disappointment crossed her face and he continued almost too enthusiastically, “Some _may_ choose to give up more to prove their devotion… but it’s, um, not required.”

“Have you?”

“Me? I… um… no. I’ve taken no such vows. Besides, I am a Templar no longer.”

She smiled at that, eyes half-lidded, twinkling and full of mirth. This was really happening. The beautiful, sensuous elf, the one he could hardly take his eyes off of, who crossed his mind far more often than was probably appropriate, was laying _on a bed_ with him, asking him about _physical temptation_.

“Maker’s breath – can we speak of something else?” he exhaled loudly.

“That’s… all I wanted to know,” she said sheepishly.

Cullen gulped down the rest of his wine and placed the empty cup on the table beside him before allowing his eyes to gravitate to her again. The flickering, dancing firelight emphasized the pinkness of her lips, the rosy flush in her cheeks, and the angle of her jaw contrasting so perfectly with the graceful curve of her neck. His eyes followed that path down to her collarbone, the subtle sheen of sweat that lingered there. 

Maker, how would her skin feel on his tongue? How would it taste, the trail from that beautiful neck down to her breasts? Did she wonder as much as he what it would feel like to cup her pert breasts through that linen? To slide between those lean, muscled thighs and press his length against her heat? Would she gasp, back arched, and beg for more? Would she cry out his name when she came?

He swung his legs over the foot of the bed and stood abruptly, blood rapidly rushing to his face and his groin, heart pounding, skin hot and damp with sweat.

“I… I should go, my lady.”

She put her cup down and rose from the bed. He towered over her small frame, pulse thrumming in his ears so loud he almost missed the hitch in her breathing. With lips parted, pupils blown wide, her hair still a mess – Maker, she was a sight to behold. 

But she did not deserve his lewd, drunken thoughts. She was so much _more_ than that, so much better. She was Andraste’s chosen, practically a goddess made flesh. So far above him… a star in the heavens burning so brightly he’d surely catch ablaze if he touched her the way he’d imagined. He could never hope to be worthy of her.

“Elaria, you are…” he said, voice low and husky. 

Her brilliant, curious eyes marked a path across his face. "Yes, Cullen?"

He swallowed thickly. “You have been a great comfort to me tonight.”

She smiled, and without thinking, he lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. It remained long enough to commit the warmth of her skin, the softness of her silver hair, and the picture before him, to memory. Then he turned, scooped up his belongings, and bowed out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prayer is from the Canticle of Trials 1:14-1:15
> 
> Comments are always welcome!


	7. Infatuation *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW! 
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**  
_Masturbation  
Sexual Fantasy  
Oral Sex  
Blowjobs  
Cullenlingus  
Vaginal Sex  
Idol worship  
Cullen has a very active imagination!_

Maker, he’d never get the image out of his mind.

Pouting, full rouge lips. Half-lidded turquoise eyes, accentuated by a thin line of kohl, looking up at him from beneath long, voluminous black lashes. High cheekbones, dusted pink, silver branches weaving toward her temples. Soft silver hair cascading around delicately pointed ears. A heart-shaped face that begged for his hands, his touch, his lips.

She had him. He was lost. Utterly and completely taken, like a young Chantry boy who’d never had a woman before. Innocent, sweet, and yet the most sensual, provocative woman he’d ever encountered. The corporeal embodiment of Desire itself, but… she was heavenly. A deity composed of pure light, grace, and beauty, who somehow oozed raw sex appeal with zero effort.

He’d fled from her cabin, heart racing, and now stood in his own. Back pressed against the door, armor and cloak wrapped in a bundle and gripped tightly to his chest. Wine coursing through his veins, tension pooling low and deep. The image of the Herald with her tunic undone, lying beside him on the bed, her scent, the sound of her sweet, husky laugh...

All culminating with a rush of blood to his rapidly swelling arousal. 

Dragging one hand down his face, he stepped away from the door with an irritated huff. It took little time to place his cloak and armor on its stand, though he tried to do so carefully. He yanked his doublet and tunic over his head, threw them in a pile at the foot of the bed, and kicked off his boots. Fingertips brushing the unwelcome erection as he unlaced his breeches, he groaned, and let the leather drop and pool at his ankles.

His cock strained against the thin material of his smallclothes, thrusting upward toward his bellybutton. He pushed them down and gasped as cold air hit heated flesh. It bounced off his stomach, hard and red. Begging for friction, for pressure. He palmed it briefly, shoulders sagging with relief – though, not nearly enough.

After throwing on a clean pair of sleeping trousers, left unlaced, he collapsed onto the wooden cot. It barely accommodated his six-foot, one-inch height, or his bulk; his feet hung slightly off the edge when he stretched out, its width just as broad as his shoulders. He laid on his stomach and sighed as his face sunk into the thin, lumpy cotton-stuffed pillow, dick pressed tightly, mercifully, between the wool blanket and the trail of dark curls leading down his stomach.

He shouldn’t – he couldn’t consider… He must resist. Steel his heart against the temptations of the wicked. This fire, this burning, unadulterated want buried deep in his gut, it wasn’t right. He’d never desired anyone so _intensely_, not even... No. Elaria was different.

The Herald of Andraste, _his_ Herald. The beautiful idol of his faith and longing. So far above him, and yet, she’d gone out of her way to comfort him, to care for him, and treated him as an equal – a friend, even.

His pelvis ground unbidden into the stiff mattress and he moaned again. Maker damn him, there would be no sleep tonight. Not like this. Not with her image, her touch seared so deeply into his recent memory. The stiff peaks of her nipples visible through the thin shift that night at the baths. So beautiful, there under the moonlight, like a painting. Face tilted toward the sky, hair dripping onto the shoulders of her coat.

And tonight, with those delicate hands holding his, tender and caring, as she knelt between his knees. Softly humming, kneading his flesh with her thumbs. In his mind, she let go, her hands settled against his thighs, and she looked up with those bright gemstone eyes.

_ “How does that feel?” she breathes, squeezing the taut muscle of his upper thighs._

_ He moans, “Good. So good.”_

_ “Tell me, Cullen…” Oh, the way she says his name! “Do Templars take vows?”_

If he had, they’d have been broken many times over during his nearly decade-long tenure in Kirkwall. Tenuous affairs, never anything meaningful or lasting. Needs of the flesh, which never coincided with those of his heart. More often than not such trysts were rushed, secretive, fleeting. Just people seeking mutual physical comfort while the city fell apart around them.

With his position as Knight-Captain, and later as acting Knight-Commander, relationships were nigh impossible. Still, he was a man, like any other, and he’d sated his lust as any young man would, much less one as inexperienced as he’d been when he first arrived in the Marches.

In the beginning, they were merely desperate attempts to feel something other than the torment that plagued him day and night. Proof that his nightmares were just that – not real. So when he felt Desire creep into his bed each night he’d know. He’d scream, “Leave me!” and wake, sweat-drenched, shaking, sobbing. But he’d be free. Awake, and out of that cage.

He’d clung to the physical realm, and to the numbing blue song of his daily philter, for sanity. Denied his feelings, ignored his trauma. For a very, very long time. Too long…

_ “You’re free now,” she whispers. He nods, slow and uncertain, tears lingering in the corners of his eyes._

_ “Will you let me take care of you, Commander? Would you like that?”_

_ “Sweet Maker, yes."_

_ “Tell me what you need.”_

Buttocks clenching, he thrust again into the cot. Inhaled sharply at the bolt of pleasure that shot from his groin straight into his brain, sharp and searing like lightning. His control slipped away as he grunted. Hips rising and falling, cock rubbing urgently between the rough wool and his skin, sweat slowly beginning to drip onto the blanket below. Yes, he was free. Now, here, perhaps things would be different. And _she_ was here.

_ “Please…” she whines, rubbing his legs now, from knee to thigh, squeezing gently as she edges closer and closer to his groin on each stroke. “Tell me what you want.”_

_ “Take off your clothes. I want to see you.” _

_ Crossing her arms to pull the hem from her breeches, she drags it up and over her head. Reaches behind her to tug the laces of her breastband and lets it fall around her waist and into her lap. _

_ Her breasts are perky, larger than they appeared when hidden by clothing, but not obscenely so. Perfect, just like her, with pink nipples to match the rosy color of her lips. The sensitive points harden under his lustful gaze._

_ Rising, she removes her breeches agonizingly slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Slides her smalls down smooth, lean, strong legs. She’s a juxtaposition of hard and soft, of muscle and supple curves. _

_ “Maker, you are… perfection.”_

_ She smiles, kneels, and takes his hand again, the one wrapped in gauze. She holds his forefinger to her lips and _licks_ it. Draws the tip into her mouth and sucks. He’s shaking, watching her with wide eyes. But this is his fantasy. His creation. Yes, he wants this. He wants _her_, more than anything._

_ “I want you to... touch me.”_

_ She hums and smiles, pleased with his command. Unlaces his breeches and frees his rock-hard length from the tight, restrictive leather with a gasp and wide eyes. She wraps her strong, slender fingers around his girth – they don’t even touch, he’s so large in her small hands. He’s breathing faster now. She strokes him once, slowly edging back the foreskin from the throbbing head, and searches his face for approval._

_ He nods. “Just like that. My beautiful goddess.” _

_ She smiles wider, tightens her grip, strokes up, and down again with a slight twist of her wrist, breasts bouncing with every movement._

Hands and shoulders trembling, he flattened his palms against the mattress and flipped over, shoving the sleep trousers around his thighs. His dominant hand shifted down, lazily massaging his aching balls, then back up to grasp his length. Circled the head, slippery with precome, and slid those rough, calloused fingers down the shaft, spreading the moisture with it. Slow, even strokes.

“Yes. Just like that…” he moaned aloud.

_ The woman he worships is now worshiping his cock and he’s never felt so blessed. She is truly Maker sent, not a demon of Desire but a spirit of love and beauty. Her gorgeous blue-green eyes bore into his, one hand stroking him and the other cupping his full, heavy sac._

_"Take me in your mouth."_

_ She leans forward, wet pink tongue darting out from between those perfect lips to lick a circle around the engorged, near-purple head. Traces the vein along the underside of his thick, heavy cock, hand still pumping in steady, slow strokes._

_ “Mm, you taste so good, Commander,” she says, breath hot as it whispers against his length. She opens her mouth, flattens her tongue and slowly envelops the head._

_ “Good girl,” he growls, low and hungry. “Deeper.”_

His calloused hand pumped furiously around flesh hard as steel yet smooth as velvet, slick with precome and sweat. The other hand in his hair, pulling, scratching his scalp. It drifted down his face, brushing the stubbly cheek, to his chest. Flicked his left nipple, and pinched _hard_. Crying out, his back arched off the cot, making him thrust into his fist again. He raised his knees; legs spread wider now, planting his feet flat against the mattress.

_ Hollowing her cheeks, lips covering her teeth, she sucks, her fist working what can’t fit within her mouth. His hand shoots out, fisting in her hair, and she lets him, moaning around him. She likes it. The rhythm picks up, faster, faster, taking him a little deeper each time. _

_ “Yes!” he cries, thrusting eagerly now into her mouth, carefully guiding her up and down, and she’s matching the rhythm with each bob of her head. She’s looking into his eyes, her own watering, but a smile playing across her swollen lips even with him drawing between them. She sucks and moans around his cock, electrifying, vibrating through his flesh, stroking faster._

“Oh Maker, oh El–fuuuuck!” he shouted.

_ She takes him all the way down until her nose is flush against his curls. He’s hitting the back of her throat, writhing and panting, arse and thighs clenching tight and– _

_ He tugs on her hair, not too hard; a warning. “Stop! Stop.”_

_ She releases his cock with an obscene, wet “pop!” and pouts. This woman will be the death of him._

Pinching the base, he willed himself to calm. Not yet. Not yet. The hand on his chest moved down to cup his balls again, rolling them soothingly. He resumed his prior movement, setting a leisurely pace now, precome dripping down over his knuckles.

_ Pulling her to her feet, he growls, “I want to taste you.”_

_ He drops from the bed, onto his own knees, takes one of her legs and hooks it over his shoulder. Presses eager lips to her wet, dripping cunt, and Maker, if he died right now with her slick on his tongue he’d do so as a happy man. _

_ Her nectar is just like the rest of her – complex, sweet yet salty and tinged with the fruity, floral, woody aroma of her perfume. She’s a garden after a late spring rain, blooming on the tip of his tongue. An oasis in the desert, and he, a man dying of thirst. He laps at her essence, drawing the flat of his tongue against her slit, over and over, until she’s mewling and sobbing and he draws her clit into his mouth and _sucks_._

_ “Cullen! Oh, Cullen, yes!” _

_ With one hand gripping her firm, round arse, the other pinching and squeezing her nipples, he holds her tight and lets her ride out her pleasure, grinding hard against his mouth and chin, and he doesn’t let go until she whimpers, pleads, begs for him to stop._

_ He rises and sits again on the bed, drawing her into his lap. She straddles him on wobbly legs, breathing heavily, tears streaking down her beautiful face. He lovingly kisses them away, whispering sweet nothings in her ear all the while._

_ “So sweet, so perfect. My Herald, my goddess.”_

_ Her arms are around his neck now; face buried against his shoulder. Placing a hand on either side of her hips, he raises her gently and lowers her onto his leaking, pulsing cock. She keens, rolls her hips forward to take him deeper, and he thrusts upward once, hard. Then rocks his hips, back and forth, steadily, holding her close so her clit is rubbing against his pelvis. _

_ “Yes, yes, Cullen, right there, right there! Don’t stop!”_

_ Faster now, and she’s matching his pace, her fingers winding through his hair, scratching the base of his skull with her nails, pert arse bouncing hard on his thighs, breasts squished against his chest, her nipples rubbing the hair there. _

_ It’s building, building, and he’s so close, nearing his release, rutting frantically now. The pressure tightens, like a coil low in his gut, his balls are drawing up and fuck, he’s never been so _hard_ in his _life_!_

He came, hard and loud, spurting hot ropes of seed across his taut, naked abdomen, fist still pumping his cock, slower now, drawing out every drop, working him through the intensity of his orgasm. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for breath, his body and the sheets beneath it soaked with sweat.

“Maker’s breath… oh holy… Andraste… take me,” he panted, throwing his left arm over his damp forehead. “Make me… to rest… in the warmest… places…”

He released his swiftly softening length and took a deep breath. That was… Guilt washed over him instantly, shocking and cold like a midnight plunge into the icy lake beyond Haven’s walls.

Oh, this was not good. This was, in fact, very, very bad. What had he just done? Even inebriated, there was no excuse. How would he face her now? How would he look her in the eyes?

Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the cot, went to the basin at the other end of the room and cleaned himself, hissing as the cold wet rag dragged across his skin. What a weak, pitiful man. Over a decade of strict discipline and he can’t keep his hands off his cock, can’t keep a woman he barely knows out of his head. If he wasn’t unworthy of her before, he definitely was now.

But Void take him, he was infatuated. With the Herald of Andraste, no less! No, this was not good at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have gone back and forth on this. But thanks to some encouragement from a friend, I've decided - fuck it. Slow burn or no, I'm writing about people. People who sometimes masturbate, have sex, and so on.
> 
> So I'm adding Cullen's solo scene back in here even though it's also posted as a one-shot. His and Elaria's romance may be a slow burn, but that doesn't mean we can't have some fun in the meantime!
> 
> On another note: Cullen's view of Elaria is highly biased at this early point in their relationship - she's still a person to him, but she's also his Herald, and thus there's a lot of "idol worship" going on. To him, she is perfection personified. But he will have to learn to accept her flaws, to see beyond the veil of her title and beauty, to truly know _her_.


	8. The Storyteller

The Inquisition; now _here_ was a story. The dwarven-engineered ink pen rattled against his lips –_ tap, tap, tap_ \- as he sat by the communal fire near his tent, scribbling in his notebook, humming thoughtfully to himself. This one probably wouldn’t even require much embellishment. Kirkwall had seen some strange shit, but this was a whole new level of weird. A hole. In the sky. A cute elf with a magical mark.

Not crime, even though that was his most popular genre, but adventure, drama, action. A motley crew of misfits working together to save the world. A new tale for a new champion. Varric had an innate talent for spotting unlikely heroes, and he already had an idea who fit the bill. His thoughts lingered on a beautiful protagonist of humble origin, thrown into circumstances beyond her control. A free spirit who suddenly found herself confined in a role she never asked for, but due to sheer determination and the support of her friends, rose to the occasion.

Maybe he’d even throw in a little romance, though he didn’t have the knack for it. Just the right amount of angst and heartache to keep readers on their toes. But what worthy suitor would win the lovely young heroine’s hand? There were so many options, and a few different ideas called out to him. Audiences loved the charming rogues, dashing mages, and probably most of all, brooding lone warriors. Especially when they all had tragic or mysterious backstories. He crossed out a couple of lines and added a new notation at the bottom of the page. Yeah, this would be good.

“What are you writing?”

He flinched and slammed the notebook shut. “Herald! Ah, nothing important. Just a couple of ideas.” She settled in beside him, sitting cross-legged.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said with a curious sidelong stare.

"Sure thing.”

"I've been asking around for ways to make myself useful, and the Inquisition needs supplies. I thought that perhaps I could scout the area for resources. Would you… like to go with me?"

"Me?" he said, surprised.

"Well, you’re a skilled archer, and I like listening to your stories.”

She cleared her throat. He shifted, turning to face her. Her pretty turquoise eyes were wide, sparkling with anticipation. The girl was a charmer. How could anyone say no to that face? Those big, captivating eyes? On top of that, she was obviously lonely. She spent every day running around Haven – often literally – trying to stay busy, talking to everyone, doing odd jobs.

"Might as well do something, now that the Seeker's off my back," he said with a wink.

"Are you sure? I mean, if you're busy…"

"Come on." He stood and brushed the snow and dirt from his trousers. "Lead the way."

They took the Red Jenny girl, who he promptly dubbed “Buttercup”, much to her dismay. He said it reflected her wild nature and youthful attitude. But in all honesty, he derived a twisted bit of pleasure from nicknames which drew the bearer’s ire. He was most proud of “Broody”, “Curly”, and “Chuckles” for that reason. The Herald was proving a little more difficult. Despite her omnipresent floral perfume, somehow a flower nickname didn’t seem appropriate for her, 

On the way out, they borrowed a pickaxe from Harritt and one of the Inquisition’s pack-brontos to haul their gear. As they walked through the practice yard, the Seeker dropped her sword at the training dummies and marched toward their direction. She waved at Curly for him to follow. He hesitated, blushing conspicuously until she stopped and glared at him.

“Shit,” Varric muttered.

“Just _what_ do you think you are doing?” Cassandra demanded, glowering down at them. The usually-stoic Commander shifted nervously on his feet behind her.

The Herald straightened her back, expression calm and composed. “We’re going to scout the surrounding area. The Inquisition needs all the resources it can get, right?”

“Yes, but –”

“Oi, what’s the big deal?” Buttercup squinted, looking back and forth at each of them.

“Please, Cass?” The Herald touched the Seeker’s shoulder and batted her eyelashes, though it was hard to tell if it was intentional or just part of her natural charm. “I want to help.”

The Seeker pursed her lips, but her eyes softened and shoulders noticeably sagged. Like he said, the girl was damn difficult to say no to.

“I… I don’t know if this is a good idea, Ela–ah–Herald,” said Curly, looking everywhere _except _directly at her. Oh, he’s on a first-name basis with the Herald? Varric grinned at him, almost daring him to acknowledge the question hidden in his stare. “If – if you give me some time, I can arrange for a small contingent of my men to accompany you…”

She smiled up at him with tooth-aching sweetness. “I’ll be fine, Commander. We aren’t going far.” The man finally looked at her and was rendered speechless, his face now beet-red. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

“I promise Curly, I’ll keep your girl safe,” Varric quipped.

“My – my what?” Both the Commander and the Herald looked away, the former rubbing his neck raw, the latter wide-eyed and blushing almost as deeply. Buttercup broke the tension with a throaty giggle, staring luridly between the pair. They were so adorable it was ridiculous.

Curly cleared his throat and turned to glare at Varric. “You’d better,” he said, and abruptly pivoted on his heel and strode back to the command tent.

“I want you three back before dark,” Cassandra said, staring after the man with a confused frown.

~

“Who knew the Inquisition needed so much friggin’ elfroot,” Buttercup grumbled, shoving yet another bundle into the pouch on her hip.

The Herald frowned. “Well, there is a _war_ going on. People get hurt.”

“Yeah, but like, I was hoping it would involve more _arrows_ and less _gardening_,” she stuck her tongue out.

“There will be plenty of ‘arrows’ when we go back to the Hinterlands.” She did not look enthused, and he didn’t blame her.

The last few weeks had not been easy, by any means. Even Varric had been irritable lately; the discovery of red lyrium at the Temple of Sacred Ashes still plagued him. A shocking reminder of Bartrand and Meredith, corrupted by the idol he found with Hawke in the Deep Roads. Was there a connection between red lyrium and the explosion at the Conclave?

Rather than harping on that unpleasantness during the downtime at Haven, he turned to what he always did – writing. On paper, he expressed every emotion and every thought that never verbally passed his lips. Not biographically – too personal. Though his elaborate characters were based on real people more often than not, he was rarely included among the cast. He was the historian, the narrator. Just the way he liked it. But what did the Herald turn to? Or who? Was that why she flitted from person to person, asking her endless, curious questions?

Aside from that day in the Hinterlands, he hadn’t seen her cry or break down. She was vivacious and full of life, beautiful and spirited. But she was also very alone, and that kind of loneliness, combined with the stress and weight of Thedas on her shoulders, had to wear on her. He’d seen it before, with Hawke, but Hawke had a whole crew of people backing him. Friends who loved him, who stood by his side even as he lost his family, the one thing he’d fought so hard to protect.

After hunting for a couple of hours, the trio found some iron deposits embedded in the rocky cliffs surrounding the lake. Buttercup guffawed at the suggestion that she help mine it, so Varric and the Herald took turns with the pickaxe chipping away chunks and lugging them back to the cart. The snarky blonde wandered off for a while to gather herbs and watch the perimeter, leaving the two of them alone.

“Can I ask you something personal, Varric?” said the Herald, taking the pickaxe from him and hefting it above her narrow shoulder.

“You want to talk about me? I’m flattered. Also, inclined toward extravagant lies.” Varric pulled from his waterskin and sat back on his heels, watching her and wiping his brow. She smirked and shook her head, then swung at the clump of metal buried waist-high in the rock in front of her.

She’d removed her coat and left it on the cart. Now she wore a simple white cotton tunic, the sleeves rolled up, tucked into grey leathers. Even he had to admit she had a striking figure. If he was a younger dwarf, and a much less lovesick one… But no, for him, that time had long come and gone. He was plenty content to be her friend.

“I don’t know anyone here,” she said, pausing her work. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

“What can I say? I’m just a loveable dwarf with a gorgeous crossbow and heart of gold.” That made her smile.

“So, you’re an author. I already know that,” she said, lifting the axe again. “What do you do when you’re not writing?”

He told her a little about his particular line of work, about his family’s seat with the Dwarven Merchants Guild and his role as a businessman with a spy network on the side. She was starting to breathe heavier already, clearly not used to this kind of physical labor, but she persisted without complaint. He handed her some water and she took it with a grateful smile.

“How do you and Cassandra know each other?” she asked.

“You read my book, so you know about the Kirkwall Chantry being destroyed.” She nodded, glancing at him over her shoulder. “The guy responsible used to be a friend of mine. The Seeker had questions about that, and I have answers.”

“He was the Champion’s friend, right?”

“Yeah. Blondie was always a bit of a mess. There at the end, though… He wasn’t exactly himself, anymore.”

“What happened to him? The book never said.”

“He fled Kirkwall with the mages from the Circle. Stayed with them awhile. But he had to move on. Somehow, a lot of mages blamed him for making them live as fugitives. I don’t know where he is now, and I don’t want to know.”

With that, she stopped, turned around, and plopped onto her butt in the snow beside the pile of metal. Drew her knees up and rested her forearms on them, tilting her head back against the rock, the pickaxe lying between her legs.

“Why _did _you become an author?”

“I love the sound of my own voice and I’m a compulsive liar,” he joked.

She lowered her head and looked at him, eyes narrowed. “While I can’t say I don’t believe that’s at least partially true, I think there’s more to you than that. And you don’t seem the type to care about fame or wealth.”

Well, shit. She was intuitive and intelligent, too. She and Hawke would get along famously. Maybe too well. He’d keep that to himself, though. For now.

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s just something I do. There’s power in stories. That’s all history is; the best tales, the ones that last. Might as well be mine.”

“What do you get out of it, though?”

“In a way, the stories are their own reward. You should really see the look on someone’s face when I tell them Hawke ripped the arms off an ogre. Just once.”

She giggled. “Are you the main character in any of these tall tales of yours?”

“Nah… there’s a recipe to a good hero, Pixie. It’s like alchemy; one part down to earth, one part selfless nobility, two parts crazy, and you season liberally with wild falsehoods. You let that percolate through a good audience for a while, and when it’s done, you’ve got your hero.”

She stared at him for a long moment, flabbergasted. “…Pixie?”

“Yeah – also known as ‘a cheerful, mischievous sprite’. Because you’re tiny, vivacious, adorable – not to mention gorgeous. So, Pixie.”

She laughed, tossing her head back.

“What about you?” he asked. “What brought you all the way here, away from your clan?”

“Hm… I suppose I wanted freedom. The freedom to forge my own path, to prove to myself that I could make it on my own. To find my own happiness, adventure… love. Of course, I didn’t expect what followed.”

“Sounds like you’re a romantic."

“Maybe.” She blushed and looked down. “I don’t think there’s much time for romance when you’re worried about demons and war, though.”

Varric hummed. “I don’t know. You’re young. Plus, what’s more romantic than drama and adventure, throwing caution to the wind while the world crumbles around you?”

“Is that how all your stories go?” She laughed. “Don’t they end in tragedy anyway?”

“Hey, it’s about the _journey_.”

~

After loading the bronto with their supplies, they started back toward Haven with Pixie begging him for a story about one of Hawke’s misadventures. He landed on one he thought both girls would enjoy; the time they framed a Templar. Some apostates wanted to escape Kirkwall via an underground network, and a certain Templar, Ser Conrad, was getting too close for comfort. As usual, Hawke was requisitioned for the job.

The plan was to frame the guy for something heinous, maybe get him removed from duty temporarily and thus halt his investigation. They forged his name on some documents at the shipyard and then went to find one of his more gullible superiors to feed a story.

“So, we found Ser Roderick in The Hanged Man. Guy’s drunk as a skunk, can barely stand up or keep his eyes open. Hawke tells him, ‘Last night, I saw Ser Conrad sacrificing a goat… to the Great Demon. Then he howled. Loudly.’” Buttercup and Pixie laughed.

“He’s like… ‘What? A demon?’ and Hawke says, ‘Oh, yes. He was carrying on about how much he wanted to do… demony things.’ Roderick says, ‘What? No!’ Then Hawke says, ‘I tell you, that Ser Conrad must be an _abomination_ or something.’” At this point, the girls were both shaking too hard to walk any further.

“So the guy reports it. Later, Hawke gets a letter that says Ser Conrad was fighting with another Templar and Roderick broke in and started accusing him of worshipping ‘The Great Demon’ and doing ‘demony things’. Right then, out of nowhere, a dockworker came up and said, calm as you please, ‘You Ser Conrad? Got a shipment of raw lyrium for you. Sign here.’”

They fell to the ground, rolling around in the snow, both hysterical with laughter. He stood beside them, grinning and satisfied. Stories were definitely their own reward. After several minutes, they were able to stand, still breathless and crying through their mirth.

“Oh, Varric. I can see why you were friends with Hawke. He sounds positively hilarious!” Pixie giggled.

“He is. He’s a good guy. Crazy, but a good guy.”

“Coulda been a Jenny with pranks like that, yeah?”

“Trouble had a way of finding him. Never thought half the shit he pulled would work. But he’d just grin and say, ‘Come now, Varric. With my charming smile and cunning wit? Everything will be _fine_!’ One thing he never lacked was confidence, that’s for sure.”

Pixie smiled wistfully. “I would love to meet the Champion one day.”

“A little star-struck, maybe?” he grinned.

She blushed. “I… well, yes. I almost feel like I know him, at least through your eyes.”

“I bet he’d _love_ to meet you, Pixie.” He winked, and her blush deepened.

He couldn’t tell her that he’d been communicating with Hawke all this time, that he’d even told him about _her_. Hawke’s responses indicated he was intrigued by the Herald, to say the least, but he warned him to stay in hiding for now. The man had been through enough in one lifetime. The last thing he needed was… this whole mess.

They started moving again, their troubles forgotten for the time being, and reached Haven about an hour before sunset to find all the recruits huddled in a wide circle in the practice yard. It took some impolite nudging, but once people realized one of their group was the Herald they stepped to the side to let them pass to the front.

In the center of the ring stood the Commander, grinning wickedly at a group of six soldiers. They all held weapons and shields at the ready and were spread out to surround him. One darted forth on his right, opposite his shield arm. He twisted and took their hit against his shield anyway, then slashed to counter with his blade.

They barely blocked it in time but his boot struck next, right in the center of their chest. The soldier flew away, landing in a breathless heap. Three more charged at once while the rest lingered hesitantly at the edges of the ring. There was a flurry of movement as the Commander danced around his attackers, nimbly dodging most of their blows and blocking those he didn’t. The man could move.

The remaining two joined in the fray as the one on the ground finally rose. Now it was six on one, all at once. Right as one thought they’d gotten him, the Commander would swiftly disable them and leap away to block someone else’s hit. Not five minutes later, all six were on the ground groaning and hugging their bruised bodies. The crowd cheered and hooted wildly.

Varric glanced at Pixie beside him. She clapped vigorously, her face full of awe and admiration. Sera was on her other side, whooping and shouting with a fist in the air. The Commander handed off his shield to another soldier, sheathed his massive longsword, and strutted in a circle.

His face was the epitome of smugness, arms raised in a shrugging position as if to say, “I told you so”. Forehead glistening with sweat, panting heavily, but otherwise, he was visibly uninjured. He ran one hand through his hair, slicking back the few curls that had slipped loose.

“Aw, over already? Just when it was getting good, yeah?” Buttercup laughed.

The soldiers on the ground were helped up and away as the crowd slowly dispersed. Several people paused to salute the man, some of them young recruits clearly in awe of their leader’s skill. He hadn’t noticed Varric or the girls, yet. Varric couldn’t help himself – he had to see the man’s reaction.

“Hey Curly! You’re supposed to be training these guys, not putting them in the infirmary!”

The Commander twisted around, eyes wide. Then he glanced to Varric’s left. Mouth falling open, his face immediately turned red. He paused a moment, then sauntered over, embarrassed but still riding the adrenaline.

“Herald, I uh… didn’t know you were back. I was just – um…”

“You’re… wow! That was amazing!” she gushed. His amber eyes flashed with pride, pupils dilating, and the corner of his mouth again curved into a smug grin. Apparently, all it took for the Commander’s shyness to dissipate was a little stroking of the ego by a beautiful woman. Or, at least one in particular.

“Oh… well, thank you.” He preened, standing straight and proud with both hands on his sword pommel.

“Thought they’d whip ‘em out next and start measuring, yeah?” Buttercup snorted. Pixie slapped her arm playfully and shushed her.

“Well, what do you want to do with the cargo, Pixie?”

It wasn’t until then that Curly looked beyond them and noticed the goods they’d brought back. Six ram carcasses would provide food and leather. They’d gathered at least a month’s supply of elfroot for potions and salves, and a huge pile of iron for weapons and armor.

“Y–you… you did all this? This is wonderful!” he said, looking at the Herald with widened eyes.

She blushed and stared bashfully at her feet. “Sera and Varric did most of the work, honestly.”

“Aw, you flatter me,” Varric chuckled, feigning modesty. “The credit has to go to the brains of the operation. _ I_ was just the muscle.”

“You there!” Curly barked at a small group of loitering recruits. “Come get this cargo. Take the herbs to apothecary Adan, the iron to Harritt and the rams to Flissa at the tavern. The hides go to the smith afterward to be tanned. And tell everyone they have the Herald to thank for an extra meat ration tomorrow!”

The men cheered and clapped and the girl’s blush deepened even further. Curly turned back with a wide grin and the three of them walked together toward the gate.

“Come on, Lady Herald. Drinks! _Driiiiinks_!” Buttercup tugged at her arm and the silver-haired elf shot Varric a helpless look.

He shook his head, grinning. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“Alright.” Pixie looked at Curly and smiled shyly. “Good evening, Commander.”

“Good evening,” he said, giving a short bow. The two men watched Buttercup drag her toward The Singing Maiden. When she looked over her shoulder one last time, Curly sighed softly. He _sighed_. Varric peered up at the man beside him.

“So… the Herald, huh?”

“Wh–what? What about her?” he stammered, hand scratching his nape.

“C’mon, Curly.”–he nudged him with his elbow–“Man to man.”

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” 

The Commander scowled, turned around, and marched toward the command tent. Varric laughed, making his way to the tavern. He was _so_ writing this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elaria and Cullen:  

> 
> So Varric was a lot of fun to write, if a little difficult. Some of the dialogue/story bit was borrowed from Dragon Age 2 (because I really, really love Varric's lines in that game). And yes, the Inquisition has pack-brontos! This is totally canon, too! I took the idea from the scene when they travel to Skyhold.
> 
> Overall, this is just a fluffy, happy interlude where the Herald and her companions get to know each other, with some aftermath/flirting between Cullen and Elaria.
> 
> Comments are always welcome! ^_^


	9. To See and Be Seen

It would have been a beautiful evening but for that great green chasm, like a wound festering in the distance. Cullen once found peace gazing at the fine particulates of pink and orange scattered like dust into hazy blue, the afterglow of the waning sun reflecting off the snow and ice around him. It was hard to do so now while the reminder of that constant threat lingered.

Dull throbbing, nagging in the back of his skull, endless and distracting. Sweat clung to his skin beneath the layers of metal and leather, not a hot sweat, but clammy, cold and uncomfortable. He shifted his weight to the opposite foot and sighed, rubbing one gloved palm across his unshaved cheek. Metal on metal, clashing and ringing, dug into his brain like knives, the sound sharpened by exhaustion and his current migraine.

It took all of his willpower to stand in the practice yard, stoic and calm, directing the recruits, calling out corrections, occasionally demonstrating proper techniques, and taking reports. Damnit, but the urge to curl up into a ball right there in the snow was an intense one.

A movement to his right, a shape against the backdrop of tents and snow-dusted evergreens. The Herald, walking alone. Leaving Haven. She’d only just returned that afternoon from another trip to the Hinterlands. What in Andraste’s name was she doing traipsing about outside its walls at nightfall?

“All right! That’s enough for today!” he shouted, eyes still on her retreating figure.

“Rest up, and don’t dawdle in the tavern too late. That includes you!” He pointed to one recruit in particular, who’d stumbled into training that morning a half-hour late with bloodshot eyes. “If anyone’s hung over on the morrow, I’ll have you _all _running laps in full armor. _With shields_!”

“Ser!” his men called in unison, saluting. If there was anything to be said for them, even with most lacking in experience, they were at the very least respectful of the Inquisition’s chain of command, eager and responsive to instruction. Slowly, they shuffled out of the training grounds under the rapidly darkening sky, some returning to their tents, others heading toward the Maiden.

Cullen gave Lieutenant Danvers directions for the following morning and started off in the direction he’d last seen the Herald. It did not take long, for the fair weather and her tracks, which he followed past a long-abandoned cabin. Only a few yards beyond, he found a break in the cliff leading to the frozen lake. And there, she sat at the end of the dock, legs hung over the edge, swinging. So small, so alone. Starting down the dock, he cleared his throat to warn of his approach.

She didn’t flinch, nor turn around. “Hello, Commander.”

“Ah, forgive me. I saw you walking into the woods… It’s dark. You should not be out here on your own.” He stood alongside her and looked down. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder. She wore no armor or boots - Maker, how was she not freezing? Just her normal leather coat over a tunic and breeches and gloves. However, he was happy to note she did have her bow and quiver on the dock beside her. Instead of moving to get up, she merely patted the dock by her leg in invitation.

“I – uh, Herald?”

“Humor me,” she chuckled. He stood, spine stiff, hesitant but also excited. It couldn’t hurt… At least with him here, she was not alone. She was safe. So he sat, careful not to bump into her, and hung his legs off the dock next to hers. She watched him from her periphery, eyes shifting to the hands fidgeting in her lap when they caught his observing in return.

“Are you alright?”

Her lips curved into a shy smile as she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear. “You were worried about me?”

“Ah, well,” he paused. Yes, worried. Now excited, and admittedly nervous. Alone with her again. “Yes, of course. You are a young woman, alone in the dark, and it’s cold–”

She burst into laughter and he scratched the hair at his nape. He’d never been a wordsmith, despite being Chantry-educated and rather well-read. Tongue always tying itself into knots at the most inopportune times. Turning her body toward his, the laughter ceased. She brought the leg closest to him up onto the dock, her knee now pressed against his thigh. His neck grew hot, her familiarity both embarrassing and thrilling. His hand squeezed into a fist in his lap to fight the urge to touch her in return.

“I’m not as fragile as I look, you know. I can handle the rams and fennecs that wander the woods. And the mark,”–she looked sadly down at her leather-clad palm–“it warns me when there is a rift nearby. I can… feel it.”

“I did not mean to imply – I’m sorry…” he trailed off. What could he say that would not further offend her?

“It’s alright, Cullen.” She placed her hand atop his, still in his lap, and stroked it with her thumb – the memory of the last time she’d touched that hand still fresh in his mind. “Most people speak to me so… reverently. As though they’re in awe of me, afraid. They look at _me_, an _elf_, and say I’m the Herald of Andraste. Like I’m not… of this world. It’s so much pressure! I’m always worried I’ll do or say the wrong thing. It’s more comforting than I can express to know that you see me as a person. As… as a woman.”

Their eyes met and lingered for a long moment before his flicked down from her eyes to her rosy lips. She blinked and, blushing, pulled her hand and leg back to their original positions.

“I just mean, uh, I appreciate your concern. Thank you.” She squeezed her hands together in her lap, the corners of her mouth twitching oddly between a smile and a grimace.

“I think I understand,” he said, sighing. “I am surrounded each day by people who see me only as ‘Commander’ or… or ‘Knight-Captain’. The roles we’re given to define us also confine. Suffocate. It can be exhausting. To always have one’s guard up, to never quite be yourself or simply be _seen_.”

Head cocked, she looked at him with a curious expression. “Yes! Exactly! I – wow.”

“You’re surprised?”

“A little, yes. I never imagined you’d feel like I do. It’s a good thing, though. Makes you seem more human.”

“Well, I _am _human,” he chuckled.

“You know what I mean!”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I do. What did I seem to be before? A barbarian, perhaps? A common misconception about us Fereldans.”

“What?” her face fell, now worried. “No! I… oh, you’re teasing me again. You arse!” She slapped his arm playfully and he laughed again. “I just meant, you know, you’re always so confident around the other soldiers. Like nothing phases you. You’re… strong. Much stronger than me.”

It was his turn to be surprised. Was that really what others thought of him? A comforting notion, that he hadn’t let enough of his façade crumble publicly to reveal the weak, suffering man within. At the same time, it was terrifying. Only a matter of time until the lie caught up to him and everyone knew the truth. Until she knew the truth…

“That’s…” He swallowed thickly, blinking back the sudden stinging in his eyes. “That’s not true.” Gloved fingers reaching out to lift her chin, he smiled. “Not many could do what you’ve done here. Most, undoubtedly, would have fled. But you stayed, and not only that, you’re helping people. Saving people. You are strong, Elaria. And possibly the bravest person I know.”

“Oh,” she breathed with a soft sigh, staring into his eyes. Hers, sparkling turquoise, with pupils wide and black like the evening sky against the sea. Plump pink lips, parted, little clouds puffing out from between them into the freezing air, whispering against his face like a lover’s caress. It would be so easy to lean down and claim those lips. Just a little closer...

Why couldn’t he just do it? She didn’t pull away, if anything, she leaned into his touch. But he’d never been all that good at reading people. What if it was merely his imagination? Wishful thinking? What if he did kiss her, and she rejected him? He shouldn’t even entertain the thought and yet, every moment he spent near her his infatuation only grew. Maker, what was wrong with him? He snatched his hand away; face suddenly hot, armor uncomfortable and constricting around his neck.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she whispered, sounding slightly hoarse, and smiled. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“Uh… yes,” he rasped, and then cleared his throat. “You’re welcome.”

They both settled into a companionable silence, staring out at the lake. Thedas’s twin moons reflected over its crystalline surface, their light interrupted by the jagged shadows of surrounding cliffs and trees. Snowfall muffled the sounds of distant animals and insects like a blanket, offering a comfortable, peaceful quiet. It wasn’t windy that night, but the constant chill in the Frostbacks was even more pronounced without the sun to provide balance. 

Suddenly, she shivered and hugged her arms tightly. Idiot! Of course, she was cold! He shrugged out of his cloak, fumbling awkwardly as it snagged on his pauldrons, and leaned close to drape it over her shoulders.

“No, no, you don’t have to–” she looked at him, surprised.

“I want to. Please, what sort of gentleman would I be, otherwise?”

Smiling graciously, she let him wrap the cloak around her, and reached up to pull it more tightly to her neck. With a contented sigh, she closed her eyes and snuggled her cheek into the fur. Goosebumps crawled across his skin at the sight, and unfamiliar possessiveness gripping his heart. How satisfying it was to see her face surrounded by his cloak. Claiming her. Like she was _his_.

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

After a bit of an awkward silence, he coughed into his hand. “So… um. Why did you come out here all by yourself?”

“Not to be alone, exactly. Honestly, I’m not used to it. It’s never like that with the clan. Sometimes being in my cabin, all alone, surrounded by walls and a roof is stifling. I just want to see the sky. Feel the air on my skin. I found this spot when Varric and I went scouting that first time. It’s… peaceful.”

He could relate to that, somewhat. The feeling of being surrounded, the need to escape. As an adult, that sensation often came about for a very different reason. But when he was a child, he did so to escape the noise of his rambunctious family. He’d run to the lake in Honnleath, near his home, for peace and quiet. He smiled wistfully. That was a simpler time when he was innocent and still so full of hope. Not a broken man.

“It is rather peaceful. And the view…”–he looked pointedly at Elaria–“is quite beautiful.” Matching his gaze, her eyebrows arched up in astonishment, his lips quirked into his signature smirk.

“H–how is your hand?” she stammered, looking demurely toward her lap, cheeks now deeply flushed. He flashed back to the image of her on her knees, intimately massaging the poultice into his knuckles. The picture shifted quickly into one of his many more lurid fantasies, cock twitching as a little bit of blood suddenly rushed that direction.

“Ah, um, better. It was only bruised, and it’s healed now. I never thanked you properly.”

“I was happy to do it, and I liked… um. It was nice.” It didn’t seem possible, but the redness in her cheeks darkened even more. She liked… what? Why didn’t she finish her sentence? What was she going to say? Maker, what unholy torture was this?

“You liked…” He swallowed the lump in his throat and braved a glance in her direction. “What?” She chewed anxiously on her lower lip, peeking at him from the corner of her eye.

“Spending time… with you.” She looked away, rocking slightly back and forth, her palms now rubbing up and down her legs, from knees to thighs, fingers clenched. He held his breath, heart pounding in his chest. She liked spending time with _him_? “It’s been lonely here, and… I enjoy talking to you. I hope – I mean… can we be friends?”

“Of course!” he exhaled. “Yes, I - I would like that.”

He wanted to be more. So much more. Did she want that too? At the same time, what could he even do about the feelings she stirred within him? Neither of them were in the position for… whatever this was. Yet that did not stop the tiny flame of hope sparked their previous night together from growing now. Being with her filled him, somehow. With both terror and comfort, this ache, this longing to touch, to hold, to taste her. To both fill and consume. And the smile she directed at him now, Andraste preserve him, it made his heart nearly burst.

His arm lifted as if pulled by an unseen puppeteer, or entirely of its own accord, dissociated from his mind or his own control, to drape around her shoulders. Before it touched, the realization hit him, and he faltered. Instead of retreating, she scooted close, without a word, and leaned into his touch. Welcomed it. As though it were completely natural, and they, two pieces of a puzzle that simply fit together. Amidst the chaos of the world around them, and despite all of his reservations, this felt _right_. It felt _good_. Even if all he could ever be was her friend, he’d sacrifice his own heart just to be near her, holding her like this, forever.

Warmth and bliss spread through his chest, slowly extending to his limbs, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. Every nerve sang, and unlike the tingling, frustrating pain that usually encompassed those nerves, now it was contentment and joy. The satisfaction of a deep-seated craving for even platonic human contact, the need to comfort another and be comforted in return. One of the deepest, most primal emotions next to fear.

Sighing, she melted into his embrace. Her scent, youthful yet refined, sweet, musky, and feminine, enveloped his senses. Closer than they’d ever been before, he took the time now to truly savor it, analyze it. Slightly fruity at the top, with a floral heart and musky base. Light and beautiful, just like her.

They sat together like that, sharing the warmth of their bodies held close and a companionship that required no words, no conversation, no effort, until Cullen began to doze.

“I do believe it is getting late,” he whispered. Elaria sat up and stretched her arms. When she yawned, it ended in an adorable mewling noise that sent a shiver up his spine. Maker, the sounds she made, the things she did to him without even trying. He rose, offering her his hand.

She let him pull her to her feet. They stood inches apart, close enough that the heat of her breath fogged up his breastplate. Looking down into her eyes, those brilliant jewels sparkling beneath the moons’ glow, he committed the sight to his library of memories, the section reserved just for her.

The tip of her nose and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. The silver lines of her vallaslin shone under the moonlight, a path his lips longed to follow across her cheekbones, over her temples, up the bridge of her nose. Stray tendrils of soft hair winding around her cheeks and down her neck as they untangled from her braid. Please, Maker, never let the lyrium take this memory from him, or any other. He’d cherish even the worst ones, the ones that haunted him each night if it meant he could hold onto those of her.

After retrieving her bow, she wrapped her hand around the crook of his arm, above the vambrace and couter, and they slowly began their trek back to Haven. Neither spoke a word until they reached the door of her cabin.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

Her fingertips trailed over his arm, and when she spoke, it was barely above a whisper, “I was wondering if perhaps… perhaps you could teach me some things.”

She released her hold and moved toward the door, turning to face him. Pulse racing, thrumming in his ears, his mind flooded with images and ideas. So many things he could teach her; show her. He took a step forward.

“Mm… and what would you have me teach you, _Elaria_?” he said, voice low. She flushed prettily, gently tugging her plump lower lip between her teeth, her gaze lowered.

“I – ah, I was hoping you could help me train.”

“Oh. Ahem…” He rubbed the back of his neck, disappointment pooling like a cool, heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. “Train… how? You’re already very skilled; I don’t know what help I could possibly be with archery.”

“That’s just it – I want to learn to use more than my bow. I’ve… there’s been a couple of instances now where I’ve been caught in close combat, where a ranged weapon is no longer advantageous. I want more extensive combat training so that when that happens, I won’t be… vulnerable. You train the recruits, so I thought…” she paused, glancing away. “You know what, forget it. I couldn’t possibly expect you to–”

“Elaria.” With one gentle finger, he raised her chin to meet his eyes. “Of course I will. Just allow me a day or two to make arrangements. Alright?”

Eyes widening, her face lit up. “Are you sure? I completely understand if you don’t have the time to spare.”

“For you? Always.”

“Thank you. Um… well, I should–” she waved an arm behind her, grasping for the door handle. He drifted another step and leaned forward, reaching between her arm and side. Her breathing hitched as her back pressed against the door. He twisted the handle but held it shut for just a moment longer, looking down at her gazing up at him with darkened eyes.

“Good night,” he whispered and pushed open the door.

“Oh – yes. G–good night.”

She stumbled backward through the door, still watching him. Lips tugging upward into a smirk, he bowed at the waist just as she closed it. Sighing, he walked the short distance to his own cabin, next to hers and opposite the main gate. Removed his armor quickly, set it up carefully on his stand with his boots beneath. Then he stripped, let his clothes lay where they fell around his feet and collapsed face-first onto the mattress.

And then it hit him, and he groaned. He’d forgotten his cloak. It would be highly inappropriate to go to her now and retrieve it. She was probably already in bed as well. Lying against her pillows, pose comfortable and unintentionally seductive. Creamy, soft skin contrasting with the scarlet silk and dark fur of his mantle, as she wore nothing else…

**~**

Unwilling to relinquish the grip of this dream where she lay upon a blissful cloud of soft fur and silk, she held on. Onto hazy images of curving lips and smoldering amber eyes, smooth and warm as brandy, lingering behind still-closed eyelids. Inhaling a heady bouquet of elderflower, oakmoss, and a hint of leather, she exhaled a contented sigh. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a startled exclamation.

When Elaria entered her cabin the night before, she’d been so overcome by the mixture of giddiness and exhaustion that she’d barely had the presence of mind to free her hair and remove her breeches before crawling into bed. Now, as she wakened, she realized she still wore Commander Cullen’s mantle. Heart fluttering with the memory of his soothing voice and strong arm around her shoulders, his sweet, kind words and gentle caresses. And, unless she was mistaken, he’d even called her beautiful.

No. He called the lake beautiful. The _lake_. Groaning, she flopped back onto her pillow, leaned her face into the fur draped over her shoulder and took one last deep inhale. Maker, he smelled wonderful – warm and masculine, creamy and faintly floral, but not sweet. Summery, earthy; a unique scent for a unique man.

Never did she expect to feel this way for a shemlen. But she’d been drawn to Cullen from that first meeting in the Chantry, and with every word, every touch, every shy glance in his direction when no one was looking, that strange desire grew.

The sun had not yet appeared above the horizon but the sky was beginning to brighten. The Commander rose early, so she hurriedly removed the cloak and her remaining clothing. She scrubbed herself down at the washbasin, dabbed her favorite homemade oil behind her ears and pulled on clean clothes. She finished cleaning her teeth and quickly combed and braided her hair.

Satisfied, she folded the cloak into her arms and snuck out of the cabin, looking around to make sure no one was up and about. She crept over to the Commander’s door and knocked twice, timidly. No reply. She tapped two more times, a bit louder. A groan and a loud thud from behind the door set her heart racing. Suddenly, it flew open. She jumped, yelping like a frightened animal.

“What?” Cullen growled, eyes still half shut, one arm on the door and the other rubbing his head as though he’d hit it on something. Hair unruly from sleep, a few curls poked out across his forehead and around his ears.

He wore nothing but a pair of wrinkled linen trousers, half-unlaced and hanging low on narrow hips. Even without armor, he was a big man – with large, powerful shoulders, thick biceps, and sculpted abdominal muscles that now flexed as he stretched one arm to his head. He had a few scars, what looked like dagger and sword cuts, even a few burns. Marks of battle and years of service with the Order. His broad chest was dusted with a thin layer of light brown hair, glistening with sweat, his skin glowing almost golden under the morning sun. Creators, he was a beautiful man.

“C–Cullen, I –“ she stammered, eyes following the trail of hair on his belly, between the sharp curve of his naked inguinal ligaments, that traveled beyond the laces of his trousers.

“Maker’s breath… Elaria?” he slurred. He squinted at her, still groggy, and ushered her inside. She followed on legs of lead while he closed the door.

The room was still dark; what little sun peeked through the thin curtains lighting it just enough to see. His cabin was much like hers, only instead of a bed; a small wooden cot was set up one corner. It was a surprisingly cluttered room, for someone with such a tidy outer appearance.

Books were stacked haphazardly on the shelves and small table by his cot. On his desk an inkwell, cup filled with fresh quills, and a massive stack of reports. An endless workload that must keep him up at all hours. His clothes from the previous day lay in a heap at the foot of the cot. The only thing in its place was his armor, neatly arranged on its stand. It was intimate, being in his personal space – like seeing inside the mind of the man, quiet and calm on the outside but chaotic within. Controlled chaos. Undoubtedly, despite the mess, he knew where every single item was by heart.

He motioned to a chair in front of his desk, opposite the unlit fireplace, and dragged one hand over his face in an effort to wipe the sleep away. She sat down, staring awkwardly as he strode across the room on long, athletic legs with large thighs and a firm, surprisingly round arse. When he bent over a washbasin and splashed his face with frigid water, she squirmed in the chair, pressing her thighs together to quench a sudden need for friction. It wasn’t enough.

“Forgive me, I – I wanted to return this to you…”

He turned around, water still dripped from his face and hair, rivulets collecting along the sharp, defined line of his jaw before falling to the skin below, winding through the hair on his chest like vines. Cullen came to her then. Stopped an inch in front of her knees, and she handed him the cloak with trembling hands. He leaned around her and gently placed it on the desk, then bent to put his hands on the arms of the chair.

Eyes drifting slowly upward, she took in the warm, muscular body hovering over her. Skin only inches from hers, so close, a nagging, pulling feeling coiling low in her belly telling her yes!

A few droplets fell and splashed against her leather-clad thighs. She fidgeted again, pulse pounding in her ears. When she finally met his eyes, the amalgamation of emotions she found there set her heart ablaze. He looked at her as a predator looks at its prey, as though he wanted nothing more than to eat her alive. 

This had to be the Fade. She was dreaming. 

Her mouth opened, but she had no words. The scent of his sweat, the earthy and wonderful blend that now and forever would remind her of this man consuming, overpowering.

Her breath caught on the lump in her throat when his gaze drifted down to her lips. The moment dragged on, an eternity of tension condensed into only a few seconds. Could he hear her heart, rapidly beating out of her chest? Please, please… she leaned closer, placing one hand on his arm.

“…Cullen?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and rough with want.

Amber eyes flashed with recognition, as if pulled from a daze, and his face flushed. He abruptly let go of the chair, crossed his arms over his chest, looked away and nervously shifted his weight on bare feet.

“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, glancing at her and then away again. “I – ah, apologize, for my current appearance.”

“No! No, no, you look…” She exhaled loudly, eyes scanning him again. “_Good_.” The corner of his mouth, the side with the scar, twisted into an amused smirk and he stood a little straighter, planting his feet more steadily.

“I mean – I, uh…” she spluttered, embarrassed. Color bloomed across her cheeks, hot with humiliation. She rose, darted to the door, then glanced briefly over her shoulder. “I’ll… see you at training!”

She bolted back to her own cabin, slammed the door shut and pushed her back against it, sliding to the floor. What an idiot! Why had she said that? Creators, now he’d know that she… that she felt… _things _for him! Thought about him in that way. Or what if he thought her childish? Inexperienced, even? 

And after such a lovely, perfect night together. They had really _connected_; he said they were friends, even. What if things became awkward now because of her? She groaned and shoved her face into her hands.

The image of him standing over her, wet, hungry, and glistening vividly remained for hours thereafter, as did the hollow ache between her thighs.

**~**

“So it’s true. Butler has turned on us.”

Behind her, soft, hesitant footfalls crunched in the snow. To the untrained, they’d be feather-light, nearly undetectable. A light, familiar scent wafted through the air. Cloudberries, daisy tree flowers, and something she couldn't quite place. The Herald’s perfume. She’d have to talk to the girl about wearing it in the field. Most warriors or mages weren’t likely to notice. But any of her fellow rogues, if they were worth their mettle, would.

The Herald leaned against the tent pole, listening to Leliana discuss the situation with her agent.

“You know what must be done. Make it clean. Painless, if you can. We were friends once.”

“Wait. What are you doing?” the Herald said, a startled look on her face.

“He betrayed us. He murdered my agent.”

“So you want to solve a murder… with more murder?”

“And what would you suggest? Leave him be? Butler’s betrayal put our agents in danger. I condemn one man to save dozens. I may not like what I do, but it must be done. I cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this.”

“Now is precisely the time for ideals. A life for a life will leave Thedas a very empty place. We must be better than our enemies, Leliana. Otherwise, what are we even fighting for?”

“You feel very strongly about this,” she said, studying the girl.

Her eyes were wide and sincere. Leliana saw herself reflected there, the person she used to be. Sweet, naïve, hopeful. She was reminded of the Herald’s words to her only weeks earlier. That Leliana could find a new purpose, that she could help her do so. Sighing, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Perhaps the Herald was right. Her anger, her desire for vengeance, her pain over Justinia’s death were affecting her judgment.

“Very well. Apprehend Butler, bring him in alive.” The agent saluted and left her alone with the Herald.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked at the Herald, curious. “For what?”

“About… about the murdered agent. You knew him. So, I’m sorry. For his loss, and… and for the Divine’s. I know her death has hit you hard.”

“I regret that I even let you see me like this. This is my burden…”

The Herald gently touched her arm. “Not yours alone, Leliana. We are all part of the Inquisition now. We’re in this together.”

She squeezed reassuringly and left with a wistful smile, a scout approaching as she walked away. He handed Leliana a scroll, which she took, and quickly dismissed him.

_ To whom it concerns:_

_ The Teynir of Highever wishes to convey our deepest sympathies on the death of Divine Justinia V. The Most Holy was incomparable in her wisdom and dedication to peace, and we had high hopes that her Conclave would succeed. _

_ We will hold a vigil in Highever in remembrance of Justinia, and cordially invite the Inquisition to attend._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Teyrn Fergus Cousland_

She hadn’t seen Fergus in years, not since the Blight ended. Brother to her closest, dearest friend, Elysa Cousland Theirin. A woman of many titles; Hero of Ferelden, Warden Commander, and Queen-Consort. She had had recently disappeared, along with all of the other Fereldan Grey Wardens, her whereabouts unknown even to the King.

None of the Inquisition’s ranking members could attend this vigil, but Leliana wanted to do _something_. She walked from her tent to the training grounds. Cullen stood in his usual position, demonstrating to a recruit the proper footing for a specific shield block.

“Now go on, try it again.”

“Yes, Ser!”

He glanced at her and nodded his acknowledgment. “Leliana.”

“Commander.” She stood beside him and faced the yard. They watched the drills together, in the comfortable silence of those who worked together much longer than they really had. He with arms crossed in front of him and she with hands clasped behind her back. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he cleared his throat, an unspoken question. What did she want?

“I received a request from Teyrn Cousland.”

“Ah… and what did this particular request entail?”

“He is holding a Vigil in remembrance of Divine Justinia, and has invited the Inquisition to attend. Obviously, none of us can do so personally. You are Fereldan, and Andrastian. I would like your opinion on the matter.”

The Commander looked thoughtful for a moment, turning to her. He dropped his left hand to his sword pommel, and the other came up to rub his chin. “We have a number of Fereldan officers. We could send an honor guard to Highever.” Leliana nodded. A show of support for the Divine - for her friend - was the least she could do.

“Please send me the list of officers. I will make the arrangements.”

“Of course.” He looked distracted, tired. More so than usual.

Something was definitely amiss. The twitch of the vein on his temple, a hint of amusement mixed with worry in his eyes and a strange smile playing across his lips that he continuously tried to hide by clenching his jaw.

This wasn’t the withdrawal, the symptoms of which he fought so hard to hide, to control. Much as he tried, nothing could be hidden from her. It was unlikely he believed she did not know, they both simply pretended it was so.

No, this was something else, something new, and her unending curiosity led her to study him further. Cullen chafed under her gaze, as usual. He frowned, exhaled loudly and turned back to the recruits, crossing his arms.

“What?” he said with an annoyed tone.

She leaned a bit closer. Very interesting! A foreign hair nestled within the fur on his shoulder. She sniffed the air and smiled. Flowers? Oh, Commander, you sly dog you.

“Oh, perhaps it is nothing. You just seem… unfocused, Commander.

“I do not!” he snapped, turning toward her with a scowl.

“Or simply not focused on _training _today? Maybe thinking about something else? Or... _someone_?”

“Thinking I’d like you to take your snooping elsewhere,” he said with narrowed eyes. “What are you–”

He backed away reflexively as she reached one arm toward his shoulder. She plucked the long strand from his mantle and dangled it in front of his face, grinning mischievously as he flushed with embarrassment.

“That’s not – it’s not what you think.”

“Hmm…" She giggled girlishly. "We shall see, no?”

“Leliana…” he growled in warning.

“Come now, Commander. No harm in a little romance, even in times like these. You know, the King and Queen fell in love during the Blight. Sometimes difficult circumstances bring people together.”

He was red from his neck to the tips of his ears at this point. “It’s not like that. She doesn’t… At least, I don’t think… Damnit, woman, will you just stay out of it?”

“Hmm, she is sweet, isn’t she? And quite lovely. Those beautiful eyes, and kissable lips? If I were but a younger woman…” She exhaled a dramatic sigh and peered up at him, laughter in her eyes and on the tip of her tongue.

“Wh–what?” His eyes grew distant, as though imagining such a scenario and his blush deepened even further. Shaking his head, the frown returned.

She sauntered away, leaving him to ponder what she said. She did _love_ a bit of drama, after all. The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste? How exciting! She _had_ to tell Josie!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new OC-intro chapter I had planned took a backseat. I'm still working on it, though!
> 
> For now, enjoy some more fluffy flirty times!
> 
> I value input if anyone wants to share their opinion about the content of this chapter or any others. Comments are always welcome!


	10. The Search Begins

A satisfying sound, metal on wood. The bark cracking and splintering, exposing the lighter inner pulp with each new thrust. Fragments littered the ground, mingling with the moss and leaves. Evidence of destruction, of rage and pain. It was quiet but for that sound, that endless, rhythmic thud and the accompanying grunts of its architect.

_ Thunk_!

A nearby bird twittered, frustrated by the disturbance. Moss beneath his bare feet still damp with morning dew, slick and slimy, green, alive. The air filled with the scent of burnt embers and cooked rabbit from the camp’s fire, even far as he was, out in the woods away from the rest of the clan. The enormous oak trunk in the forest outside of Wycome was thoroughly mangled now, yet still, he swung the greatsword again, unconcerned for the damage it caused his blade. Tiny chips and nicks marring its edge, dulling each new blow.

_ Thunk_!

Because fuck. This. Tree. That was all he had, right here, in this moment. It was him against the tree. Him against Thedas. Stepping forward, he swung the massive sword over his shoulder. Muscles singing, burning with adrenaline, tension riddling his back and shoulders, climbing up his neck and seeping into his brain. A plea – stop! Stop! No more!

_ Thunk_!

The bird squawked angrily and flew off, finally fed up with this nonsense. Grumbling, he pulled back. Hefted the blade with both hands, behind his back, brought it over his head with a vicious snarl. Yes! Again!

_ Thunk_!

It stuck. He yanked once. Didn't even budge. Pulled again, harder this time, and slipped. Eyes wide, mouth open with an unspoken shout; he landed hard on his arse – right onto a jagged, broken branch. A sharp, stinging pain lanced through the muscle.

“Fenedhis!” he hissed, rolling onto one cheek so he could survey the damage on the other.

A long, sharp piece of the branch had torn through his woven leggings and embedded deep into the meaty flesh. Pulling it out with an annoyed grunt, he hurled it several feet away. Blood dripped down his pale skin onto the dark green foliage below, staining it, muddying the color and forming an ugly, tacky brown mess. He flopped onto his back, ignoring the pain that spiked through his arse and thigh when the wound rubbed against the hard earth, dirt and leaves grinding into the opening.

Vision swimming with unshed tears, he squeezed his eyes shut and roared, pounding the ground beneath him with one fist. But he didn’t cry. He never cried, not even when Mamae died. While Aenaran withdrew and wallowed, he stayed strong. He had to, for Elaria. He took on the mantle of both brother and father, companion and protector. Hid behind smirking lips and sarcastic quips, never one to let others see what he really felt.

“Da’riel?”

Rocking his weight back onto his shoulders, hips bucking upward, he leapt to his feet in one smooth, agile motion and spun around. Aenaran. Of course.

“What?” Da'riel turned away, dragging a calloused hand down his smooth, hairless face and strong, sharply angled jaw.

“Taking out your rage on the tree will not make it go away.”

He laughed darkly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sculpting, Babae"-he waved one hand in a flippant gesture-"This tree was begging for an artist’s touch. How could I deny it my refined aesthetic vision?”

“You are not the only one hurting, here.”

Da’riel turned around slowly, body wired and tense. “Oh? You seem to be taking it rather well, I’d say.”

“Esha'lin,” he said, a warning in his tone.

“Don’t.”

“Talk to me.”

“Talk?” he growled. “You want me to _talk_? This is _your fault_! You sent her there, _alone_! What more is there to say?”

Guilt, however fleeting, gripped his heart at the anguished expression on the other man’s face. A face mirroring his own; with the same light green eyes, but surrounded by long raven hair streaked with grey, and skin marked green in honor of Andruil. It wasn’t true; she’d volunteered. But someone had to bear the blame, and it wouldn’t be her.

“Blame me if you must, but don’t push me away. All we have… all we have now is each other.”

“Don’t say that. She’s alive.”

“Da’riel…”

“She. Is. _Alive_,” he said through gritted teeth. “I would... I can feel it. And I am going to find her.”

Aenaran stared at him in disbelief. “But–”

“You cannot change my mind. I leave tomorrow.”

The older man simply analyzed his face. After a long moment, he closed his eyes, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Find her. Bring her home.”

~

Ugh. Kirkwall. How anyone could bear to live in such filth and squalor was beyond him. Breathing the putrid stench of tar and fish that permeated everything it touched. Aside from Hightown, which he avoided with good reason, much of the city was impoverished and in disrepair. Reconstruction after the rebellion had been slow going, the populace and infrastructure still suffering under the crushing weight of its aftermath.

What he needed right now was an ale and a ship. Where could one find both a captain willing to take a lone Dalish across the Waking Sea and a cheap drink? He asked around. Everyone’s answer? The Hanged Man, of course.

Dingy, dimly-lit, and smelling of piss and watered-down ale, The Hanged Man in Lowtown was the last place he expected to find relative comfort. Yet it was, oddly enough, his kind of place. One where no one asked questions, where he could get off the seedy, thug-infested streets and grab a drink in relative peace.

Leaning with one arm slung across the back of the booth, long legs stretched out and spread wide, mug in hand and a smirk on his face, Da’riel sipped his drink and watched the loitering patrons. Watched, listened, and waited. Rented a room at the end of that first night, and scouted opportunities during the day. Took a couple of odd jobs from local business owners, who were more than happy to employ his blade to eliminate threats to their prosperity.

Patience was never one of his virtues, but he could fake it well enough. On the outside, he appeared calm, arrogant and aloof. A mask he’d donned in his youth, one that came in handy more often than not to veil the turmoil within. But two weeks had passed now with no prospects, and his collected veneer was beginning to wear off.

Not to say there weren’t plenty of ships going to and from the city. Trade between the Marches and Ferelden was booming under King Alistair, as the country’s economy had improved much in the ten years since the Blight. Orlais was apparently another story, currently in the midst of a civil war. Regardless, all were reluctant to take an extra passenger across the sea, much less and elvhen one. Traveling the long way by foot would take him through Orlais, an idea he was not fond of. For now, it seemed, he was stuck in Kirkwall.

Until she walked in. Powerful and deadly as the blades strapped to wide hips barely concealed by her tiny skirt. Dark, almost black hair, tumbling in waves across lithe shoulders and a bust ready to explode from its tight white leather corset. Black boots that climbed up to strong thighs. Full lips curved into a permanent smirk. A woman who understood her own beauty – and knew exactly how to use it to her advantage.

Every evening, she came in for an ale. Stood at the same spot by the bar, drank until any normal woman her size would cease functionality, and retreated at the latest possible hour back to her rented room only a few doors from his. Tonight was no different.

“I hear you have a ship.”

The laugh that followed was a rich sound, nearly as lovely as the woman producing it. Lilting and seductive, raw, but genuine. “And what, pray tell, is that any business of yours?”

She turned to face him and faltered a mere fraction of a second as eyes the color of warm amber raked across his own figure, up close for the first time. Maybe not as broad or heavy as a human male, but Da’riel knew his own strengths as well as she clearly knew hers. Tall for an elf, every inch covered in well-toned muscle, arms sculpted into weapons in their own right by years of dedicated training.

In his experience, few women could resist his own special brand of charm, which he turned on now with a grin. He leaned one elbow against the bar and crossed his ankles. Far enough from her to not intimidate, but just close enough to catch her scent. Sea salt, sandalwood musk and spices – ginger, perhaps? Delicious.

Gesturing to the bartender, he handed over a coin and slid the mug toward the pirate. “I’m in the market for a ride across the waves, love. And I hear you are the best of the best.”

She laughed again. “Free alcohol and compliments? Oh, I _like _you.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “if it’s compliments you so desire, mine are plentiful in supply and given quite freely… for one such as yourself.”

“Hmm. You are an... _interesting_ fellow. Unfortunately, I can't help you.”

“Oh? And here I was looking for the Queen of the Eastern Seas. Pirate captain extraordinaire, member of the Champion’s motley crew? Unless I am mistaken.”

“You aren’t,” she grinned, eyeing him again with one hand on her hip. “How do you know who I am?”

“How could I not? The bards all tell of your skill. The deadliness of your blade, your unrivaled beauty, your adventures with the Champion and triumphs at sea.”

“And yet, my vessel is not the kind one typically books transport upon.” She took a step closer and walked her fingers up his chest, nails clicking on the metal plating of his new armor. “You… sound… desperate.” Her nails reached his neck, delicately grazing the skin. A shiver crawled up his spine, but he schooled himself to remain aloof.

“Perhaps I am… should I beg?” He leaned down to her ear and whispered huskily, “Would you like to see me on my knees?”

Her breath, warm on his cheek, caught in her throat and released with a moan of, “_Oh_, _my_.”

He gestured, inviting her to join him, and sauntered back over to his still-unoccupied corner table. After sliding into his seat, he ran a strong, slender hand through his short, messy silver locks and draped the other arm casually over the top of the bench. Moments later, the pirate plopped unceremoniously on the bench across from him, set her mug down, and crossed her legs.

“Alright. I’m curious. Where’s the destination, and what’s in it for me?”

“I have coin. And I have a particular set of skills at my disposable that may be of use to you. Not on a ship, per say. But I’ve thieved my share, can handle myself in a fight, and–”

“_And _you carry a _very_. Big. Sword.” Her tongue darted out to wet her upper lip and she grinned lasciviously.

Clever, clever woman. His sword was in his room, not on him. Didn’t need it in a fight, really. He could throw a punch well enough and hid multiple daggers within his armor. Never worried about anyone stealing from his room, as the sword was his only possession of value, it was too heavy to be easily carried away, and his post in the corner allowed him full view of the tavern’s sole entry and exit point. But how did she know about it? It seemed she had been watching him as well.

“Very observant,” he said, one finger tracing a knife carving on the table. The name of some long-forgotten patron, etched into the worn, scuffed wood. A memory from another time. “Yes, indeed I do.”

“You’re offering me your sword, in exchange for passage to… where, exactly?”

“Ferelden.”

A booted foot tapped against his calf now, rhythmic and steady, as her foot swayed back and forth. Her hand lifted to finger the heavy gold necklace around her throat, glistening in the candlelight. A thick choker, covering the entire neck, with large round medallions dangling down her décolletage. It ended just above her breasts, rising and falling steadily with each breath.

“Lucky for you, then, that I happened to stop here. And even luckier that my next one is in Highever.”

“Very lucky,” he said, grinning.

“But first, introductions. You already know my name, apparently. Although it’s _Admiral _Isabela now. And you are?”

“Well, _I-sa-be-la…_” he drawled. “I am Da’riel Shala'saron, of clan Lavellan.”

“Tell me, Da’riel. Why do you need to get to Ferelden so badly?”

His smile stiffened as he fought to keep the rest of his face impassive. “Why do you ask?”

Isabela interlaced her fingers and stretched her arms languidly above her head. “I have to protect my interests. I can’t take you if you’ll bring trouble aboard my ship – trouble that I’ll have to either clean up or run from. I create enough of my own.”

“I’m sure you do,” he chuckled. “Something tells me, however, that you like trouble.”

Desire surged through his body at the laugh that emerged from her then, her head back and throat bared – well, what little of it was not decked in gold. But that desire was dampened somewhat by her question and the feelings it brought to the surface. And the memory of another face, another laugh, that he longed for with every fiber of his being.

“Oh, I do. Especially when it comes so well-packaged.” The pirate hummed appreciatively as her eyes appraised his frame again, draped casually opposite her with long legs spread. “But,” her voice turned dark, “I won’t endanger my men.”

He dragged one hand through his hair again, tugging it back from his tattooed face. How much could he divulge? Instinct told him she could be trusted, and though he was not usually one to trust easily, he had been saved by his gut man times over and learned long ago to rely on it above all else.

“I’m looking for someone. My sister… She left for Ferelden months ago and… and I am going to find her.”

She smiled and cocked her head. It was a soft smile, warmer than before. “A rescue mission? Why didn’t you say so? I do so love aiding damsels in distress.”

“Mmhmm, I bet you do,” he chuckled.

“Well, it’s settled then! So, Da’riel. You going to buy me another drink?”

“But if I spend all my coin tonight, what will I pay you with?” One of his eyebrows arched as her foot began stroking the inside of his leg, pulse rising ever so slightly. His eyes drifted to her full lips, twisted into a wicked smile, slick and shining with the ale that lingered there.

“Hmm… I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elaria's twin has arrived!  

> 
> And who better to take him across the sea than our favorite pirate queen? 😁 
> 
> Esha'lin - my child/my son, translation from [faerieavalon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerieavalon/pseuds/faerieavalon)


	11. All Hands on Deck *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!  
**Chapter-Specific Tags:**  
_Vaginal Fingering  
Cunnilingus  
Blowjobs  
Mild Hair Pulling  
Vaginal Sex  
Casual Sex  
Rough Sex_

They didn’t even make it to his door. With thick legs wrapped around his waist and full lips sucking greedily on his, her tongue licking broad stripes across the pinkness of his mouth, he stumbled through the dark hallway. She tasted of sea salt and ginger, zesty and biting, yet sweet and warm, with notes of heady ale lingering beneath.

Da’riel’s sinewy arms were full of squirming, panting pirate. She impatiently rolled and bucked her hips against his taut stomach despite the tight grasp with which he held her and the undoubtedly painful rub of his metal armor into her skin. Fuck, she was eager. Cock heavy and swollen, trapped between black leather breeches and the muscle of his thigh, he groaned and thrust aimlessly against empty air, well below her lush bottom.

Large palms gripping her arse, kneading the flesh beneath his calloused fingertips, he barely had the presence of mind to release one plump cheek to grab the door handle. Was nearly tempted to kick it open, but then, there would be the matter of their privacy to consider if it broke and could not shut thereafter.

Within seconds of crossing the threshold, he kicked the door shut behind him and spun, pressing her back against the wood. His lips left hers to mark a trail down her long, lithe neck, settling just above the line of her gold choker to suckle the sensitive nerves there. She gasped, and his grip tightened around her thighs where he kept her flush between his body and the door. It was all he could do to not slip the dagger from his gauntlet, rip open her miniscule skirt and the laces on his trousers and fuck her right then and there.

Still latched onto her neck, he worked one hand under her thigh and tugged her thin smallclothes aside to sink a finger within. Fen’harel take him, she was blissfully tight, and already dripping wet.

“Fuck,” she moaned, clenching around him. “_More_!”

Mythal be praised, the woman was insatiable. Though he was definitely no virgin, Isabela had to have at least a decade on him. No gentle flower, the woman knew what she wanted. His heart thudded turbulently in his chest as he withdrew his hand. He relished the wanton plea that escaped her lips and the way it devolved into a garbled string of curses when he thrust back in with two fingers instead. What an absolutely gorgeous sound.

“It’s… a shame… it’s such a short trip… to Highever,” she panted.

Releasing her neck, he slowed the pace of his fingers a little, letting her calm just enough to speak. “Oh? Why is that?” he whispered, taking her pierced earlobe between his teeth and licking a line around the gold ring dangling there.

“I think… I’d rather like to keep you… below deck, all to myself… for a while.”

“Mmmm,” he purred. Sinking his fingers deeper, he curled them as best he could from that awkward angle, bucking his hips to match the rhythm of his hand. “I suppose we’ll just have to make the most of the time we have then, won’t we, love?”

Isabela threw her head back against the door, expelling a throaty groan, “Oh, you are a bad, bad boy. Or a very good one. I – ooooh… I haven’t… decided yet.”

His pulse raced at the praise she doted upon him. Ever eager to continue earning it, Da’riel removed his hand from her cunt, brought it to his mouth and sucked. She shuddered in his arms, the pupils of her half-lidded caramel eyes blowing so wide only a rim of color remained. 

Her lips, swollen, plump and still shining with his saliva. The mark on her neck, just below her ear, slowly beginning to purple beneath her luscious skin. All those weeks of waiting for a ship had been worth it. All the frustration, that sense of impotence. Tonight… tonight he would make up for it.

Grinning, he unclasped her legs from his hips and eased her down, and the moment her boots touched the floor reached under the skirt rucked up around her wide hips. With a sharp tug and the sound of tearing fabric, he ripped her smallclothes away and tossed the thin, lacy material over his shoulder, sinking to his knees.

She laughed with that beautiful sensual lilt that set his body on fire and looked down into his eyes. “Well? Are you just going to stare at me, handsome?”

One leg swung up and over his shoulder and she arched her back, leaning her shoulders against the door and shifting her weight to the foot still planted firmly on the scuffed wooden floor. Her shaven core bared, deliciously musky, a mere inch from his face. A fine delicacy, waiting to be devoured. And she _smirked_.

“Or are you going to get to work?”

Blessed fucking Creators. He was going to fuck this woman senseless, and make sure the entire tavern heard it.

Pushing what little of the skirt was in the way upward, he dove in and licked one broad stroke up her glistening pussy, noting with a groan of satisfaction the golden stud through the hood of her clitoris. He inhaled her unique aroma as her fingers wound through his silver hair, nails scraping against his scalp. Da'riel groaned in pleasure, so damned hard he could burst through his breeches. Still holding her gaze, the tip of his tongue danced and teased along her folds. Salty and sweet all at once - and utterly delectable. She trembled above him, tensing each time he neared the spot she wanted him to reach and whining in disappointment when he’d dart away at the last second.

Intoxicating – that was the only word to describe her. Instantly addicted, he wrapped one arm around her arse, pulled her against his face, and thrust his tongue into her. Lapped up her essence, sucking and nibbling and working her gorgeous cunt until he had to use both hands just to hold her still. Only then did he allow his tongue to find her swollen bundle, flicking against the metal stud there and holding her tight as pleasure wracked her body and she keened, swearing to her Maker.

A rush of pride flooded him at the sound. Length pulsing against his leg, chafing under the tight material, he whimpered, though not loud enough for her to hear, and rubbed himself through the leather. Not enough, fuck. Not nearly enough. No more games. No more teasing.

So that hand found its way back to her hot center, its viscous liquid now running down her thighs. Thrusting his fingers deep inside, he crooked them into a come-hither motion and captured her clit again with his lips. Stroked and suckled like it would deliver him sustenance. Thigh clamping down hard around his shoulder, she wailed a jumble of prayers in Common and another language less familiar yet not entirely foreign to his practiced ears; Rivaini. Beautiful.

Continuing to suck and flick at her clit, Da’riel let her ride out her pleasure on his tongue, fucking herself on his fingers. At this point, he barely had to work at it. But he did want her to come. Preferably, so loud she drowned out the noise downstairs. 

Her curses soon turned into moans and mewling little cries as her pleasure crested higher and higher, her fingers pulling insistently at his hair. Painful, yet exhilarating, it shot a bolt of electricity straight through his center, all the way to his throbbing cock. Da’riel tightened his hold across her corseted abdomen. His lips pulled into a smirk when she began clawing for purchase on the flat wall behind her, working into a frenzy. Her inner walls clenched around his hand, muscles fluttering with her approaching release. Her cries faded into little mewls as she ghosted the edge.

With a final swirl of his tongue over her swollen clit, Isabela fell over the cliff she’d been balanced on with a shriek, clamping tight around him, her knees locking and thighs going tense. And she shattered. Completely, utterly, and went limp in his arms. Da’riel drank greedily from her, carefully removing his hand to steady her, and did not pull his mouth away until she begged, crying out pitifully at the excess sensitivity.

Pressing a tender kiss to her inner thigh, he shot his gaze upward and grinned. The pirate stood, shaking with the aftershocks. Her cheeks burned red and her eyes were black with arousal. Tendrils of dark hair lay plastered to her neck, and the exposed parts of her body glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her plump lips parted as she struggled for air.

A lazy but roguish smile passed over her features as he rose to his full height, perhaps not as tall as some human men but still standing nearly a head above the curvaceous woman. His hand spread between her shoulder blades as he supported her trembling frame with his solid torso. He bent down to capture her mouth with a languorous kiss, less frenzied now despite the raging lust ablaze within. She moaned, tasting herself on his tongue, before pulling away and chuckling breathlessly.

“My, my, you devilish elf. That sly tongue of yours is indeed… dexterous. Care to show me what you can do with your sword?”

“Ah, my dear Pirate Queen," he rumbled, voice low and husky. "The real question is; are you prepared to fall under it?”

Tossing her head back, she belted out a hearty laugh. “You cocky bastard!”

Before she had time to react, Da’riel scooped her up and over his shoulder. She cried out somewhat indignantly at first, but with a light slap to her rear her protests metamorphosed into an impatient, enthusiastic whine. He carried her the short distance to the dilapidated bed on the other side of the room and tossed her onto her back. She bounced on the mattress with a giggle and immediately began unlacing her top while Da’riel worked on her thigh-high boots, yanking them off one by one and chunking them carelessly behind him.

They divested themselves of their numerous hidden daggers, laughing playfully all the while, until she lay completely nude save for her jewelry and copious, alluring piercings. Each dusky nipple tipped in gold rings, another looped through her navel. With sweat polishing her lustrous skin, she shone like a goddess before him, on her knees with legs spread. Her plump breasts bounced as she reached out to palm his length, still trapped by leather. His only remaining garment now that his breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, and tunic littered the ground beneath his bare feet.

His head rolled back and eyes fluttered shut. “Fuck, woman,” he groaned.

“That is the plan, isn’t it?” She laughed. “Or are you going to stand there all night?”

Her eyes flashed hungrily as he deftly untied the laces and shoved the leather down lean hips - devoid of smalls, since he never wore them - and past toned, muscled thighs. He bent to yank them from his legs and rose. Stood proud, his thick cock at attention below a coarse patch of dark hair trailing from his groin up toward his belly. The head was nearly purple with the intensity of his arousal.

“Oh… _my_,” she crooned, eyes going wide for a mere second before drooping again, weighty and full of want. She looked up at him through her long black eyelashes and grinned, a devilish and confident smile that held such promise his heart leapt in his chest.

Taller than most of his kin, he’d been an awkward child. Slender and somewhat gangly. But he fought long and hard. Ate heartily, trained and honed his body into a finely crafted weapon. When he entered his teens, he quickly became aware of his other strengths and discovered, with no small thanks to numerous lovers, he was rather well-proportioned. And none he’d taken, including many humans – in secret – had ever complained.

Isabela licked her lips and crawled closer. She trailed her fingertips over the black vallaslin that wound around his thighs, up his muscled chest and abdomen, and encircled his forearms. His tribute to June, brother of Andruil and husband to Sylaise. The remnant of a time long past; his coming of age. When he’d been a little less jaded and more optimistic about the world. The pirate leaned down to rub her luscious lips over his throbbing head, lapping at the beaded pearl of precome leaking from it and hissed when her tongue swirled around the sensitive glans just beneath. She teased him with a throaty chuckle, holding eye contact, wearing that ever-present mischievous smile. A growl rumbling deep in his chest, Da’riel tangled his hand in her soft, dark tresses and pressed her mouth down over his cock. The resulting moan of her approval vibrated through him, nearly robbing him of the remainder of his control.

She swallowed his flushed length as far as she was physically able. Opening her jaw wide, hollowing her cheeks, her experience and skill halting the reflex to gag. She bobbed up and down his cock, setting a languid pace, tongue massaging the spot below the head on every upward stroke. One hand gripped what she could not fit within, the other coming about to squeeze the taut muscle of his arse. With his free hand, he teased and pinched her nipples, their peaks hardening gloriously under his attention. 

He startled for a second when Isabela’s fingers dipped lower to massage his perineum, but quickly relaxed and grunted his consent, palming one heavy breast that overflowed his palm. Gauging the surprise on her face, she likely thought it was his first time _experimenting_ in such a manner. He grinned and thrust forward gently. It wasn’t.

Da’riel fucked her mouth until desire quickened into a need that spread like wildfire through his veins. With a slight yank on her hair, she released his cock, the resulting “pop!” wet, lewd, and delicious. It incited his darkest, most primal urges. He was done playing. Done waiting. He needed to let go, needed _release_. Needed to bury himself so deep within her he’d forget how to come up for air.

Circling her pierced clit with slick fingers he nipped, kissed, and licked a trail to her full breasts, laving attention on each sensitive peak before continuing on to the hollow of her throat. She clawed her long nails into his back and shoulders. Digging her heels into the bed, Isabela’s back arched off the bed, hips bucking impatiently upward in a desperate search for friction. So aggressive, so responsive. So unabashedly wanton.

“Fuck. Me. Da’riel,” she demanded, glaring up at him.

“Aye, aye, Admiral.”

Her husky laugh broke into a string of cries and curses as he sheathed himself in her tight cunt. “Creators…” he groaned, bottoming out.

The pirate swore breathlessly under him, eyes rolling back. Gripping her hips, he pulled out almost completely before rolling his own to rebury his cock smoothly inside her. So hot, so taut and wet and ready for him!

A torrent of nonsensical Elvish mixed with Common fell from his lips as he rocked, unsheathing as far as he dared with each stroke. Relishing the feel of her velvet heat, the view of her enormous breasts bouncing on each thrust. She wrapped her legs around his bottom and locked her ankles, pulling him forcefully against her.

“I said – FUCK ME!”

With lightning speed he yanked her legs back open, pulling out in the process, and flipped her onto her hands and knees. He snatched her wrists, holding them tight to the small of her back, forcing her face to drop against the mattress and slammed into her. “Like this?” he growled, dark and rumbling, leaning over to her ear.

“Shit… yeeees… you… fuck!” she screamed, meeting him thrust for thrust.

His pelvis snapped against her arse at a primal pace. Faster, harder. Rutting into her and snarling like an animal gone mad, or perhaps a demon. Sweat beaded along his back and dripped down his forehead through matted and damp hair. Freeing her wrists, he propped himself up with his hands on the headboard of the bed and pounded her into the mattress below.

“Yes! Yes! Maker, yes!”

She came again unexpectedly, inner walls clamping down almost painfully on his pulsing cock. The dim light of the braziers on the walls cast their wavering orange glow over her dark form beneath him, plump arse in the air, curls spread over the pillows and her hands fisting desperately into the blankets by her head. The lusty slap of flesh on flesh filled the room, almost as loud as her screams. The smell of her musk, of her cunt, filling the thick, humid air.

His own grunts grew louder, more insistent, tension pooling low and deep. His vision blurred as he pistoned in rhythm with her ravenous cries. He blinked away sweat, now falling into his eyelashes. Removed a hand from the wall to wipe across his forehead, and continued his assault. Burying much more than his cock here, he plundered on, chasing his own end and praying to Mythal she found hers again because in no way would he last at this pace.

He needed this much more than Isabela knew. After months of emotional torture and anguish, of worry and fear, he needed more than anything to lose himself in her magnificent heat. Needed to, for just a moment, feel _free_. To feel _good_.

“Right there… right there… oh, sweet Maker, _fuuuuck meeeee_,” she keened.

Isabela's inner walls fluttered and clenched around his cock and he expelled a guttural moan, vaguely aware that the pitch of her own cries had increased along with their volume. With a smug grin, Da’riel wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. One hand dipped below her belly, his middle finger finding its target easily and rubbing circles around the gold-pierced bundle of nerves to coax a third orgasm from the writhing woman.

“Don’t… you… _dare_… stop!” she sobbed into the pillow, tears of pleasure staining its cloth surface.

Creators, he couldn’t… he had to…

With a bit more pressure applied to her clit and another sharp thrust, she came screaming his name into the Void and beyond. So loud, he was sure even those in the streets outside The Hanged Man could hear her.

He slipped from her quickly, a rough growl rising from his throat. Pumping a rough hand down his cock once, he spent himself, painting the small of her back. Reveled in the sight of her, so beautiful and spent, covered in his seed. His palm, on the headboard again, was the only thing keeping him upright as sensation slowly returned to his extremities.

Sighing, he collapsed on the bed, sticky with sweat, alongside the grinning and thoroughly sated pirate.

“Oh, you are not getting above deck at all,” she gasped, catching her breath. “You brilliant, gorgeous bastard. And it won’t be just sea legs making it hard for you to walk when we dock in Highever.”

Da’riel chuckled richly, one arm flung across his eyes. The other curled under Isabela to pull her body flush against his pale, intricately tattooed chest, not caring about the mess. Merely wanting to feel someone beside him, someone close.

“Is that a promise?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna go hide under my cube of shame now, bye!
> 
> lol
> 
> I must give thanks to my waifu [Lostinfantasies86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38) for her help plotting out the chapter!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated. Enjoy!


	12. Lesson One

A solid mass, like a wall, pressed against her back. A wall of metal and leather, warm, with the scent of wood smoke, musk, and spices filling her nose. The thrilling tingle of gooseflesh worked its way up from her toes, to her legs, her thighs, her stomach… all the way to the large hands grasping her biceps. Holding her still – firm, but not rough.

“Oh!” She looked up. Piercing eyes, light blue like the sky on a clear, cloudless day and glinting with mischief, stared down into hers.

“You okay there, lass?” He let go and she turned around.

A man she’d only before seen in passing, but never up close, and who yet remained unnamed. Four thick black stripes were tattooed vertically across his chin and another thinner stripe lined the left curve of his hooked nose. A long scar ran across his right eyebrow and forked briefly down his tan cheek until it stopped at the border of his stubble. One smaller scar curved from the edge of the tattoo on the left side of his chin upward toward his cheek, belying the friendly openness in his expression.

Suddenly, his mouth curved into a crooked, roguish grin. _Shit. _She was staring and still hadn’t said a word! __

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there,” she said, a blush warming her cheeks.

Chuckling, gravelly and low, he ran long, thick fingers through wavy dark-brown hair that had grown a little shaggy across his forehead and around his ears.

“No harm done, lass. I didnae mean to sneak up on you. Need any help? You’re looking a wee bit lost.”

Yes. No. Maybe… She’d expected to train with the Commander today, but upon finding him in the practice yard, busy as usual, lost her nerve and nearly ran away. And walked backward right into the man now looking her over with those curious blue eyes.

“Um… Not exactly…” She paused and took a breath, then offered her hand. “Forgive me. My name is Elaria.”

“Knight-Captain Rylen, at your service,” he said, deep voice thick with a Starkhaven brogue. He took her hand, and instead of shaking it as she’d intended, performed a shallow bow at the waist and raised it to full, generous lips. Eyes locked on hers, he tenderly kissed the knuckles closest to her fingertips. "Or just Captain now, all things considered."

“_Oh_…” she whispered hoarsely. “Ahem… A pleasure to meet you, Rylen.”

His breath was warm against her skin, soft as a lover’s caress. “I assure you, the _pleasure’s_ all mine.”

Standing straight, he dropped her hand and hooked his own onto his belt. She clasped her hands behind her back and glanced away, chewing her lip. When she looked back to him, his eyes had not left her face. One dense, dark eyebrow quirked up like a silent question.

A stern growl of, “Captain Rylen,” resounded behind her. She turned around to find Cullen, only a few feet away, arms crossed across his broad, metal-encased chest. Glowering, his gaze darted between her and Rylen.

“Commander.” Rylen saluted, grinning cheekily.

“Ready for your training, Herald?” Cullen said, looking at her.

“Uh… yes, I–”

“Rylen, take over. I will return this evening.”

“Yes, Ser.” He glanced at her and winked. “M’lady.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched tight, his brows furrowing as he watched Rylen swagger over to the waiting soldiers. Then he gestured for her to follow him, turned sharply, and stalked toward the woods.

“Um, Cu–Commander? Where are we going?”

“I have prepared an area for you to train privately unless you prefer to do so with my men.”

It probably wouldn’t do much for morale for recruits to see the Herald flailing around like a novice. Come to think of it, she didn’t want the Commander to, either. _Fenedhis_. No going back now.

“I… Yes, that’s probably for the best. Thank you,” she said, picking up her pace to trail behind him. They walked past Haven’s outer walls toward the former apothecary’s cabin. There was a wide patch in the front devoid of snow, covered with dead grass and leaves, where Cullen set up a practice dummy.

He opened the cabin door and she followed. The room was separated into two spaces by a half-wall. A small brazier lit up the middle of the main room, lined with crates and bookshelves. Everything was covered in dust except for a table against the back wall, which now held several weapons.

Cullen waved a hand over the table. “I never asked, so I had one of my men bring a variety. Do you have a preference?”

“I, uh… I don’t know.”

His eyes roamed over her for a second, musing, one hand on his sword pommel and the other stroking his stubble. Goosebumps prickled up her arms, for the second time that morning, under the close observation. Her thigh muscles tensed and she shifted on her feet, tempted to flee the room like a frightened fennec. Cullen noted her apprehension and smiled reassuringly.

“I understand if you’re nervous. But, I’m not here to judge you, Her– ah, Elaria.”

The flush that had already bloomed in her cheeks intensified. He scanned the table, picked up two small daggers, unsheathed them and handed them to her.

“How do they feel?”

“Not bad. To be honest, I was a little intimidated by the idea of using a sword. But this feels more… comfortable.”

“Good, that’s good.”

Her brother had tried once, long ago, to get her to learn to wield a sword. But she'd adamantly refused, declaring it unnecessary. She had been content then with her skills, with her role. How different things were... What would Da'riel think if he saw her now, learning and growing? Fighting? Would he be proud of her? Worried? Probably both, knowing him. Distracted by nostalgia, a sudden ache squeezed her heart. 

“Right…" She coughed into her fist. "So, what do I… do?”

“When dual-wielding, your main hand dagger is your primary offensive weapon and the off-hand is your parrying dagger. But for the most part, you will use them in unison. Your advantages are speed and surprise and your disadvantages are lack of defense and reach.”

After unclipping his longsword and leaning it against the table, he took the daggers back. Twirled the hilts back and forth in his hands, first holding in the standard position, pointed away from his body, then flipping them so the blades lay parallel to his forearms. He demonstrated different parrying techniques, such as crossing one’s arms into an X to block an opponent’s thrust if they are also using a short weapon. Then, he showed her how to vary that move if blocking a sword.

“I’ve seen the recruits and scouts train in swordplay and archery, but never with daggers. How did you learn? Don’t you specialize with a longsword?” she asked.

“Typically, Templars train in a variety of combat techniques and specialize with a specific weapon based on their skillset. Some become archers, others wield axes or swords. However, I learned _this_ from… an acquaintance. Back in Kirkwall. She was a particularly skilled… um… duelist.”

His eyes flitted away, as though recalling a memory, and the faint hint of a blush fell across his cheeks. Her stomach twisted into a knot, brow furrowing with irritation. Who was he talking about? Was this a ‘special’ someone? He cleared his throat and turned abruptly, grabbed the dagger holsters and held them out to her. She stared at them dumbly and then back up at him.

“I don’t… um…” she stammered.

“Here. Is it all right if I…” He motioned to her belt and when she nodded, knelt on one knee in front of her and pulled on the black leather strap, tugging her forward a step. Startled, her hands landed on his shoulders.

“Sorry!” she gasped, voice pitched abnormally high, and withdrew them.

Chuckling, he put the holsters on the floor, took her hands and put them back on his shoulders, eyes locked with hers; his encouraging and warm, hers wide with shock and… Oh, Creators. Something else entirely. But what did he see when he looked there?

He hadn’t said anything about the events of that morning, the last time they were alone. There had been several meetings since then with the other advisors in attendance, and he never treated her any differently. She was partly relieved that their relationship had not changed, that she hadn’t ruined it by acting a fool. Yet she was also disappointed. And not entirely sure why. _Did_ she want things to change between them?

Ugh. This… feeling. It was not a pleasant one. Frustrating, disconcerting, it filled her with self-doubt and anxiety and yet… Staring into those amber depths, those doubts slipped away. His mere presence, soothing and exciting all at once. Like nothing she’d ever felt before.

As he returned to his task, she watched the golden, glorious hair level with her breasts only inches away. It would be so easy to run her fingers through it, feel its softness against her skin, scratch her nails gently against his scalp, listen to him purr… or perhaps growl. She clenched her fists into the fur of his mantle, exhaling shakily as he slipped the holster straps around her belt, buttoned the clasps, and stood.

“Come,” he said, stepping back toward the door.

He led her out to the dummy and made her practice drawing the weapons until the motion became more comfortable. Then she repeated the moves he’d showed her earlier. Cullen corrected when necessary through touch and verbal commands to reposition her arms, legs, or posture. After one move, when she stepped back, he was suddenly behind her.

“Keep your elbows in.” He wrapped his arms around hers, drew them closer to her sides, pulled them back and thrust forward with her. His cold metal cuirass pressed into her neck and shoulders, contrasting intensely with the heat emanating from his pelvis against her lower back.

“Like this,” he said, voice low, thick and sweet as honey.

She shuddered and whispered breathily, “_Yes, Commander._”

His breathing hitched and the grip on her tightened. There was a long pause before his gloved hands slid slowly across her arms and down her ribs, settling for a moment on her waist. Her pulse raced and she closed her eyes. So warm and strong. And by the grace of Mythal, he smelled so good. Suddenly, he let go, backed away, and cleared his throat.

“Again,” he said in a stern, controlled voice.

She practiced cutting, lunging, slashing, and stabbing under his careful direction. They focused on keeping her footing stable, testing ways to hold the weapons, sheathing and unsheathing, until it all became more fluid. Once he stopped her and said it was time for a break, she sheathed the weapons and followed him into the cabin. He pulled two chairs over to the brazier and waved his hand over one.

“Sit.”

She obeyed, watching as he brought her a waterskin, which she greedily gulped down. The Commander sat quietly beside her, propped his elbows up on spread knees and looked into the fire. He nodded his head slowly, lost in thought, gently dragging his lips up and down the tips of leather-clad fingers forming a steeple in front of his face. A whisper of a touch, barely connecting, enticingly tender. The fire cast an ethereal golden glow about him, like something out of a dream, its light playing upon the scar on his lip. She forced her gaze away.

“So, um, what…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What are you thinking about?”

“Hmm? Oh, forgive me.” He sat up and turned his body toward her. “I think this style of weapon suits your physique better than a sword would.”

“Is that good?”

“The daggers will pair well with your bow. That way if you ever run out of arrows, or are caught at close range, you’re not left defenseless.”

“Right. That’s… smart.” _Fenedhis lasa_, did she really just say that?

“I want to focus on your strengths, hone those abilities. Now that you have a basic grasp on the movements, how the weapons feel in your hands, you will need to work on footwork, blocking, and targeting vulnerability points.” He stood, picked up a blunted longsword and wooden shield, and opened the door. She left the waterskin on the chair and followed dutifully.

“As I’m sure you are aware, there are several gaps in armor you can aim for that will either kill, or at the very least, disable your opponent.” The blood drained from her face at that, but still, she nodded for him to continue. He propped the sword against the cabin’s outer wall for a moment and pointed to each spot on his body as he spoke.

“If not covered by plate, sever the artery in the thigh here and you can bring a man down within minutes, provided you can stab forcefully enough to get through chainmail or even hardened leather. Under the arm, here… the neck, and of course the head if they wear no helm.

“The back of the knee, or the ankle to limit mobility. The elbow or the extensor here on the forearm, if exposed, to disable their weapon hand. Any area that is unable to be fully covered without restricting movement is vulnerable. The only other way to take down an enemy in heavy armor, especially full plate, is with extreme blunt force.”

Cullen moved a little further away from the dummy, raised the sword and shield, and assumed an aggressive stance. She stared, open-mouthed and dumbfounded.

“Uh… you want me to _spar_ with you?”

His eyebrow lifted as he smirked. “There’s only so much you can learn on a dummy.”

Elaria glanced down at her feet for a moment to gather herself, anxiety welling up from her gut, palms sweating. Yes, definitely no going back now. She lifted her head, chin held high, unsheathed her weapons, and planted her feet.

The Commander advanced slowly, instructing how to parry and when. She went through the motions of various defensive positions, he taught her how to counter based on the target area of his sword and type of swing, and they took turns rotating between offense and defense.

The rest of the world fell away as she focused solely on him. Memorizing each expression, every twitch of the muscles in his cheeks, the excitement in his eyes. The rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, clouds of white flowing from his lips into the cold. The length of his stride as he lunged for her, the habitual downward tilt of his shield.

She relaxed into it, let herself flow with the movements. And spotted an opening. She darted forward, on offense this time. Feinting to the right, she went left at the last minute and slid under his shield, dropping to one knee behind him and twisting back as he spun to catch her. Her arm swung up between his legs.

The dulled blade connected with his right thigh, above the poleyn on his knee. She hovered there, panting, cheeks flushed. It was a killing blow, across the femoral artery like he’d shown her. And even if it didn’t pierce that, it would at least cut the quadriceps and disable the enemy’s leg.

“Very good,” he grinned, looking down at her. Her heart swelled at his praise.

She rose as he pivoted on his feet, hurtling herself backward and barely missed his follow-up swing as it grazed the front of her tunic, down the center of her chest. Leaping out of range, she perched on her haunches, balanced on the balls of her bare feet. Before he could move again, she dashed around to his right. He whirled in the opposite direction and met her next slash with his shield. He feinted and as she went to parry, arced his sword around her to land the flat of his blade against her buttocks with enough force to bruise. She yelped, shocked.

He laughed, flashing her a devilish grin, and ran, lowering his sword and leaning into his shield. She spun to avoid the collision, dancing around and then behind him. She lunged into his flank, but he was faster. His right foot shot out and caught her ankle, pulling it toward him. Her feet flew out from under her and she landed flat on her back in the snow with a loud “Oomph!”

Cullen quickly positioned himself with legs straddled on either side of her hips, sword pointed at her throat and hovered there, eyes raking over her figure and growing dark. The front of her coat was splayed open, shirt clinging to her skin, damp with sweat. She lay panting, breasts rising and falling heavily, face flushed and feverish from adrenaline and embarrassment.

“That was… dirty,” she croaked. He laughed again.

“Your enemy will not play fair.” He tossed the sword to the ground and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet.

“If you focus too much on their weapon you’ll miss what they’re doing with the rest of their body. _Always_ maintain your footing, and pay attention to your surroundings. In some instances, you may be in close quarters, on unstable ground, or have your weapon taken from you. Hand-to-hand combat is just as important as weapon training. It can help you take advantage of every weakness and monitor your own.”

“Would you teach me that? How to fight with my body as well as my weapons?” His lips parted, expression eager, but hesitated before speaking.

“Maker, how long have we been at it?” Glancing at the sky, he chuckled and shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I should relieve Rylen.” Suddenly he grimaced, lips drawn into a taut line, brow furrowed as though irritated.

“Cullen? Are you alright?”

“What? Oh - ah, yes. Yes, I’m fine. Come now, let’s get cleaned up.”

They walked back into the cabin to rest for a moment, sat around the brazier, and guzzled their water. The sweat on his skin glistened brilliantly in the light, cheeks faintly pink from the exertion. Some of his hair had shaken free, a few loose curls matted against his forehead. Just like that morning, hair wet and disheveled, dripping down onto his naked chest. Damnit, the image was burned into her mind!

“You did well today,” he said suddenly, snapping her out of the fantasy.

She smirked. “You have a strange definition of ‘well’, Commander.” She wiggled in the chair and winced. “I’ll be sore tomorrow, for sure. And that’s with you going easy on me!”

But it was all worth it, for the time she’d had. For the mirth in his eyes, and the smile on those lovely lips. She’d bear all the bruises she had to for another perfect day like this, where the war felt so far away and this man so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Flirty Rylen! And a jealous Commander? Hmm, I sense some drama ahead... Elaria's leveling up, slowly but surely. The training will only get harder (and hotter) from here!
> 
> Also, in case anyone noticed the homage - Kauri's [The Captain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5870875/chapters/13531522) has permanently affected my Cullen headcanon.
> 
> Comments and suggestions are always welcome. Thanks so much for reading!


	13. Whiskey and Brogue

Tucked comfortably into a booth in the far corner of The Singing Maiden, Elaria idly spun her mug on the rough-hewn wooden table as Varric and Sera wove one exaggerated tale after another. Each attempted to outshine the other with elaborations she doubted held much truth; regardless, she laughed along with their antics and assumed an appropriately engrossed expression. Keeping their company, staying busy, was all she could do to avoid the dozen other things weighing on her mind. Even then, it rarely worked.

Their most recent trip to the Hinterlands yielded more recruits, including the sole remaining Grey Warden in all of Ferelden. But that alone was a troubling thought. What if another Blight occurred? As Varric said to her earlier that evening, “Yeah, because that’s what we really need right now, on top of bein’ ass-deep in demons from the hole in the sky and a mage and Templar war. _Darkspawn_.” The absolute _last_ thing they needed, to be sure.

When in Haven, Elaria continued her training. Two-hour sessions, beginning at dawn, that Cullen said he planned to make routine during intervals in her travels. It was by no means an easy endeavor, wielding unfamiliar weapons and learning new techniques. Her body was covered in bruises small and large – no grievous injuries, of course, more evidence of her own missteps than the aggressiveness of her tutor. The Commander was still going easy on her, much more so than he did the recruits. He was considerably patient and generous with his praise, but no less quick to correct her mistakes and point out where she could improve.

"So, Pixie. How's the training going?" Varric asked, snapping her attention back to the present.

"Well, I think. He's still showing me the basics-"

"That all he shows you, or...?" Sera said with a sly grin, her large blue-grey eyes sparkling playfully.

"Sera!" she scolded. "Nothing like that! He's... we're friends, that's all. And he's the Commander of the Inquisition's army." She looked away, gulping down another long swig of her ale.

"Yeah, whatever. Didn't think Commander Uptight had any friends."

"What's your problem with Cullen? You don't seem to like him much," she said, cocking an eyebrow.

"It’s like this, right? You know when you’re still growing, you get bigger shoes than your size so they’ll fit later? Cassandra’s military, that’s how she thinks. Always pragmatic, always _serious_. So she found the biggest tight-britches soldier out there, because if you want a jackboot you get a big one so you can grow into it. That’s what she wants the Inquisition to be, yeah? A big. Fat. Jackboot.” 

Varric chuckled. “Eh, Curly’s not so bad once you get to know him." 

“Not my thing." Sera shrugged. "Nice hair, though.”

"I agree with Varric. He's... he's very nice, actually. Sweet, and kind..." 

"And broody!"

"Not _always_... Anyway, he didn't have to go out of his way to help me, but he did."

"Like Curly could ever turn you down," said the dwarf with a cheeky smirk. She scowled back at him and guzzled the remainder of her drink. What did he mean by that? 

“Fancy meeting you here, m’lady," drawled a deep, familiar voice.

Elaria looked up, startled. Captain Rylen stood beside the table, somehow seeming even larger out of his armor, wearing a casual cream-colored linen shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows, brown leather breeches and boots. The open and unlaced neck of his shirt revealed dark curls on his broad, muscular chest and a tantalizing hint of another tattoo. He held a brown leather jacket in one hand, draped over the back of his shoulder.

“Oh? And where else would you imagine me to be, Captain?” The former Templar laughed, bright teeth clashing against his sun-kissed tawny skin. 

“Not here, Herald. Shows what I know." He flashed a roguish grin. "Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all." 

He paused in laying his jacket over the back of the booth and looked to her companions to confirm their approval. Varric nodded his consent with a friendly grin while Sera distractedly picked at a wheel of cheese in the center of the table the group had been sharing.

Lips curving into a coy smile, she said teasingly, "But please, call me Elaria. No ‘Herald’ business after hours," and waved her hand over the open seat beside her in invitation. 

Wide, confident smile still plastered on his face, he snagged her hand and firmly curled his long, thick fingers around her own much smaller ones. Performing a short bow, he brought them to his lips and purred in that delicious brogue, “Fair enough, bonnie lass… but only if you call me Rylen.” Her breath caught in her throat, time standing still for the length of a heartbeat while his mirth-filled eyes locked with hers. 

Warmth spreading across her cheeks, she turned her head in time to catch Varric’s eyebrows rising into his hairline. He tried, and failed miserably, to hide a smirk in the cuff of his leather duster. Sera snorted, grinning impishly. Just as she opened her mouth to retort, Varric excused them to snag fresh ales and dragged the snarky elf away before she could insert her foot in her mouth.

Clearing her throat as subtly as possible, Elaria fiddled with her empty mug, tracing her finger down toward the wet ring it left on the table.

“Would you like a refill? My treat,” Rylen suggested.

“Oh, you don’t have to–”

“Nae, it’d be my pleasure. Was about to get a tumbler of whiskey, myself.”

“In that case,” she said, glancing in his direction, “I’ll have what you’re having.” His eyebrows lifted and she smirked. “You’re surprised?”

Chuckling, he bent his head down to her ear and murmured, “Perhaps I’ve a few surprises up my sleeve as well.” He pulled back to catch her eyes again, the piercing intensity in his sending a pleasurable shiver up her spine.

Wrapping his fingers around the handle of her mug, he rose and sauntered over to the bar, leaning his elbows against the wood next to where Varric and Sera now sat sipping their drinks. He jerked his chin in acknowledgment to the red-headed wench she’d seen at the baths all those weeks prior, apparently one of Flissa’s hired hands, and said something Elaria couldn’t hear over the din of the other patrons packed into the small building.

Her eyes roamed over his body. Tall, with broad shoulders that bled into a narrow waist and hips and thick, strong legs. Dark hair mussed, slightly damp and curled from a recent bath. When they returned to his face, his own crystalline gaze locked onto hers from across the room.

She dropped her eyes down to her lap and rubbed the hem of her tunic between forefinger and thumb, pretending to be interested in the loose thread there. Left alone at the table like that, anxiety curled in her gut like a vise. It was an ugly feeling, that of being surrounded by people yet utterly lonely all at once. Suddenly, a warm hand tapped her shoulder. Rylen was back, both drinks already set on the table and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Y’alright, lass?”

“Oh… Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“Ah." He chuckled. "What you need is to get out of that bonny head of yours." He slid back into the booth, close enough that their thighs touched. “Now, lass, this is sippin’ spirit only. If you chug it, I’ll be forced to throw you over my shoulder and carry you home, hear?”

“Aye,” she said, fluently mimicking his accent back to him. A broad smile broke across his tattooed features, rough with the day’s unshaven stubble. Clinking their glasses together in salute, Rylen’s eyes followed her lips as they hovered over the aromatic liquid. 

It was rich and nutty, with hints of oak and yeast, its bouquet wafting into her nostrils and causing the sensitive flesh there to tingle. Strong stuff. Her pulse quickened with anticipation. Thick, mildly sweet, it burned hot and quick down her throat, filling her with a warmth that perhaps wasn’t due to the alcohol alone. Her nose wrinkled, but she didn’t cough.

Rylen’s hand slapped the table in approval. “Well done! Most who try to drink with me end up choking on the floor after the first sip.”

“Glad I passed your ‘test’,” she said, voice a little hoarse from the sting of the whiskey. 

He guffawed, long and loud, bringing a smile to her lips again. “Ah, lass, you’re trouble, you are.” 

Mild heat bloomed across her cheeks and she glanced up to catch Varric’s eye at the other end of the tavern. He and Sera were trying far too hard to look like they weren’t watching every moment. She glared at him and he grinned, nodding his head in Rylen’s direction.

“TALK TO HIM,” Varric mouthed silently.

“I AM!” she mouthed back, peering over surreptitiously to make sure Rylen hadn’t caught them.

“So, Rylen. Um… It occurs to me that I don’t know much about you–”

“I’d be shocked, and frankly worried, if you did.” He chuckled. “What would you like to know?”

“Your, um, accent... You’re from Starkhaven, yes?”

“Thought you said you didnae ken about me,” he said, flashing a snarky grin and leaning back against the bench. He brought his right leg up, rested that ankle on his knee and draped one arm across the bench behind her head. His scent, deep and musky with a hint of spice, something almost sweet, filled her nostrils.

Her blush spread, now warming the tips of her ears. “I spent most of my life traveling, and have heard many voices. I pay attention to the sounds. I find them fascinating.” Raising the glass to her lips again, she took a sip. The intensity of the amber liquid’s previous burn now dulled to a mild tingle.

“Hmm…_ fascinating_, you say. Aye, that I am. My da was a stonemason in Starkhaven. Joined the Templars as a wee laddie and served until they all ran off to the hills, barking at the moon. Commander Cullen offered me a job as his Second-in-Command, and I was glad to do anything to help stop all this… madness.”

“But if you were in Starkhaven, how did you meet Cullen?”

“After Kirkwall… exploded… Starkhaven sent aid.” He sipped his drink, voice lowering as the conversation turned serious. “Rubble fell on much of the city. A lot of people were homeless or trapped in collapsed buildings. I coordinated rescue efforts and met Cullen while he was trying to command what was left of Kirkwall’s Templars.”

“How awful,” she said softly, a pout gracing her lips. “I’ve read about it. Before, I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like. But now, having survived the Conclave… Seeing such things stays with you.”

“Aye, indeed it does.” He frowned slightly, eyes growing a little distant and glossy as they lingered on a spot on the table for a moment. Blinking, he cleared his throat and looked back at her. “What about you, lass? You said you traveled often, but do you call anywhere home?”

“Home is… complicated. It is family, and it is wherever I am. But most recently, I stayed in the Free Marches. When I left my clan we were camped near the eastern coast.”

“Do you miss them? Your clan, I mean?”

Inhaling deeply, she sighed, reclining back against the bench. “I do. Ma isa- er, my brother and father, most of all.” 

She glanced up to find him suddenly very close, looking down into her eyes. Only an inch or two closer and she could lean her head on his shoulder, relax into the curve of his side. And now, talking about her family, that desire for comfort, for physical contact, became nearly overwhelming. She looked away and took another drink.

“And you, Rylen? Do you have a family back home?”

“I have siblings, aye. My ma and da.”

“No one else?”

The Knight-Captain paused with his glass pressed against full lips, a roguish smile pulling the corner near his long scar upward. “Nae, I’ve no one special waiting for me.”

“Do you miss it?” she asked. He shifted on the bench, lowering his crossed leg, and tugged on the fabric of his breeches down by his knee. That hand then came up to rest upon his thick, taut thigh. 

“A man cannae help missing the land of his birth. But as you said, home is wherever I am. And right now”-he leaned closer, eyes locked with hers-“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Her breathing hitched as both of them fell silent, the tension growing palpable. The air in the crowded tavern suddenly thick and uncomfortably humid. She reached up to tug on a collar that was not there, and instead caressed the prominent collarbone below her throat. Blue eyes following the path her fingers took, he hummed, deep and low. 

When he looked away to take another sip of his drink, Elaria’s gaze wandered to his lap, open wide between those spread legs. The place where his leg rubbed against hers warm, its pressure reassuring. Solid. Grounding. 

“Anyway, the Inquisition's a touch batty, but I’m always glad to be doing something useful." He paused and took a small breath. "As for you, though... How dae you feel about it? The Inquisition, I mean.” 

She sighed. “People depend on the Inquisition, and I’m the only one who can close the rifts… I think it would be wrong for me to leave. And, I don't know... As difficult, and sometimes scary, as it is - I have a purpose here. If I have the means to help, then I must do so.”

“I, for one, am glad you stayed. You’ve been quite the morale booster to the commonfolk and to our soldiers. Not to mention all the good work you’ve done in the Hinterlands. You're makin' a difference, that much is certain."

"Oh," she said, eyes growing wide. "T-thank you, Rylen."

Cocking his head, he smiled. “Would you, ah, like another drink there, lass?”

Breaking out into a wide grin, she picked up her now-empty glass and proffered it to the man. “You read my mind.”

Flagging down the bar wench, he slammed back the dregs of his own drink and turned both their glasses upside down on the woman’s tray when she arrived beside their table. Elaria’s eyebrows rose a fraction at the venomous glare the red-head shot her and she glanced at Rylen to see if he noticed. But he spoke jovially as ever, either unaware or completely unphased.

“So much for sippin’ - ready to take it up a notch, Elaria? I have a feeling we could both use a little fun tonight.” He winked and the mischievously suggestive glint in his eye sent goosebumps up her arms. She leaned forward, arching her back to rest one elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. Fuck it. One perfect eyebrow quirked up as she delivered the man a lazy smirk.

“What do you have in mind, _Rylen_?”

He hummed appreciatively. “I must say, lass, I do like the way my name rolls off your tongue.”

“And I do so enjoy the way you call me ‘lass’,” she giggled, casting him a coquettish smile. 

Teeth flashing with his widening grin, he jerked his head toward the other end of the tavern where her companions sat, attention still rapt on them though they glanced away every time she looked, feigning disinterest. “Invite your friends back over. I have an idea how to pass the time, if that’s alright with you, _lass_. I’ll nip over to the bar and get us another round.”

When he withdrew his arm from the bench and rose, she was sorry for the sudden distance between them. Her heart raced with anticipation, however, at whatever plan he was concocting. He stood and waited politely for her while she slid out of the booth, and, with him now behind her, she sauntered over to Varric and Sera, hips swaying a little more than usual.

“Well well well, if it isn’t the Lady Herald,” Sera grinned as she approached. “Thought you’d forgotten all about lil old us, yeah? How’s it going over there? You gonna make your move, or what?”

Normally, she would have blushed profusely at the insinuation, but with a full mug of ale and the strong whiskey in her belly, she found it difficult to care. So she returned her fellow rogue’s grin in kind, looking between her and Varric who beamed at her with something akin to pride.

“Aw, leave her alone, Buttercup. Our girl is growin’ up.”

“I am already quite grown up - thank you very much,” she huffed.

“So you are,” he chuckled. He put one hand over his heart and gave her the worst attempt at sad mabari-eyes she'd ever seen. "But I'm not ready to let you go!"

She laughed, throwing her head back. “Varric, you are terrible. And don't give me that face! Anyway, Sera, I don’t even know what ‘move’ you’re referring to.”

The elf snorted. “Yeah, right. He’s into you, Ellie.”

Elaria shifted her weight a little and cocked her head, suddenly uncertain. “You think so?”

“Plain as day, yeah?”

“I have to agree with Buttercup on this one. He likes you. And it seems you like him, too. So what’s up, Pixie? Why are you over here with us?”

She sucked in a breath and glanced toward the bar where he stood. He did seem verg friendly and kind. He’d gone out of his way to approach her, and she frequently caught his eyes lingering on hers, or on her lips or body.

Cullen looked at her the same way a few times, and she’d entertained the fantasy of his affections on multiple occasions, but the man was frustratingly aloof more often than not and made no move beyond their current camaraderie. She had the nagging feeling that would never change, and honestly, was not sure if she wanted it to. They had a wonderful friendship as it was. What if acting on these physical impulses ruined it? She would regret that much more than never doing so at all.

And by the Dales, it had been a long time. With the constant stress and threat of death looming overhead every time she left Haven, her patience and her resolve wore thinner. Here, with the Inquisition, she was free of old social mores, and truly an independent adult for the first time in her life. Maybe now was the time to grab hold of the freedom she’d sought for so long. If so, tonight provided her ample opportunity to do so. She took a breath and raised her chin determinedly.

“Rylen wants to play a game and said we need more people. Care to join us?”

Her companions shared a quick glance before practically running across the tavern to retake their former seats at Elaria’s corner table. The Knight-Captain reappeared shortly after, holding a whiskey bottle and easily gripping four shot glasses in one large hand. 

He set everything on the table and slid smoothly into his seat next to her, yanking the leather back from his knees so he could more comfortably spread his legs. His thigh pressed against hers again, firmer this time, and she relished the return of his body heat. Greetings were exchanged around the table as he poured each of them a shot.

Rylen recorked the bottle and gently set it aside. “Right, let’s keep things simple, aye? A shot game - we keep taking them till we cannae take no more. Everyone in?”

Varric smirked along with Sera as they reached for their glasses. The foursome clinked their glasses together with a simultaneous “Cheers!”. Elaria’s eyes met Rylen’s and they downed the drinks without breaking contact. She laughed cheerfully and set her glass down in front of him for a refill. The man leaned boldly against her with a bark of laughter of his own.

“Didn’t think I could handle it, did you?” she said, looking at each of her companions, saving Rylen for last. She faked a defiant expression but could not mask the giddiness playing at the corners of her lips.

Varric chuckled, “Uh-oh, you’ve done it now, Captain. Never challenge this one - Pixie might be sweet but she’s equally feisty.”

“Oh, nae, lass.” Rylen smirked, shaking his head. His accent was normally refined and tamed by his Chantry education. The alcohol had slowly loosened his tongue; not enough to slur his speech by any means, but noticeably thickening the sensual drawl. “Ah dinnae think there’s anything ye cannae handle.” 

His whiskey scented breath fanned across her flush-warmed cheeks as she held up her newly filled glass, heart jumping joyfully from his compliment. Time to test the waters. Hmm… she needed her friends distracted for this, however. 

“Tell us a story, Varric,” she said with a brilliant smile, batting her eyelashes. He delved in enthusiastically, a knowing glint in his eye.

Hastily pouring another round, Rylen nearly spilled some of the whiskey when her fingers ghosted over his thigh beneath the table, hidden from her companion’s view, painting swirls and patterns across the fabric. Recovering from his initial surprise, he spun his full glass on the table, half-heartedly listening to Varric regale them with a tale about Hawke’s battle with the Arishok. A barely-concealed smile persisted at the corners of his mouth. 

His other hand lowered to lay upon his leg in the spot she’d touched, their fingers brushing together, and she bit her lip to keep from moaning aloud at the pure electricity that shot up her arm. Rylen coughed subtly into the opposite fist and her heart skipped a beat. Did he feel it too? She started to withdraw her hand, fearing she’d been too bold, when he grabbed it within his own calloused palm and set it back on his thigh. He squeezed gently, pressing her fingers into the hard, leather-covered muscle.

Stealing a glance, she found his eyes staring intently at her, a brazen smirk growing across his tanned face. The urge to capture his full lips with hers loomed in her mind, and he watched the path her tongue traced as she licked her lips. There was no doubt left in her mind; they were right. He wanted her, and Fen’harel take her, she wanted him too.

“Oi! Herald!” A foot jabbed into her shin, startling her back to reality. “I _said _\- are you gonna take another shot or what?” The elf bounced in her seat, impatiently shaking her empty glass toward Rylen; either completely unaware that she’d interrupted their moment or supremely proud that she had.

Elaria wrenched her eyes away to face her companions again, face burning hot with the realization that she’d been staring so wantonly at the man beside her in full view of the entire tavern. Varric chuckled gleefully from his position opposite her, eyes glimmering. Undoubtedly taking notes for that story he said he _definitely _wasn’t writing about her or the Inquisition. Rylen huffed out an aggravated breath but winked cheekily when they clinked glasses and guzzled down the sweet, stinging whiskey.

Raising the bottle in one massive hand, he asked, “Who’s up for round three?”

Varric shook his head and flipped his glass over, shooting a meaningful glance at Sera who pointedly ignored him and held hers out for another. The Knight-Captain turned to Elaria. “What about it, lass?”

“One more for the road,” she purred.

“As you wish,” he murmured quietly in that enticingly deep voice. Pouring the final round, the three crashed their glasses together and polished off the amber liquid in unison. With a low grunt and shake of his head, Rylen gathered their glasses and the bottle and swaggered over to Flissa at the bar on surprisingly steady legs.

“I’m gonna call it a night, Pixie. C’mon Buttercup.” Varric tugged on the elf’s arm. She opened her mouth to protest, but with a poignant look from Elaria she relented and followed the dwarf out of the tavern. Chewing on her lip, she wiped one sweaty palm down her leather-clad thigh and stood. When Rylen came back to the table, she had one arm in her coat.

“I was thinking, Ser Rylen… Perhaps you could – I mean, if you’d like to – walk me to my cabin?”

One eyebrow lifted and he stared at her for a few seconds before smoothly pulling on his jacket, bowing, and offering her his arm.

“M’lady.”

With a husky giggle she accepted and allowed him to lead her out of the loud tavern into the dark, still night. Elaria shuddered, despite her coat, and gripped his arm a bit tighter, drawing close as they made the short trip down the empty street. As they reached her door, she let go and turned to face him, heart racing beneath her breast. 

When he took a step forward, she instinctively stepped back, propelled more by nerves than an actual desire to escape. No, running was the last thing on her mind tonight – the regret from the last time she’d done so from Cullen still fresh in her memory. Mythal, give her courage!

“T–thank you, for tonight,” she breathed. “I haven’t had so much fun in… I don’t remember when. Nor so much drink, I think.” She laughed nervously.

“Nae, lass. It is you who deserves _my_ thanks.” Creators be praised, his voice was richer than triple mead and smoother than butter. Taking another step, he placed one palm against the door above her head and paused, a question in his hungry eyes.

Craning her neck up due to his obscene height, she licked her lips. This was it. Now or never. Go for it! “Rylen?”

“Aye?”

“Would you like to come in?”

He analyzed her face, as though assuring himself of her sincerity. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Then aye, Elaria. I would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist! Yes, I went there. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my waifu4laifu [Lostinfantasies86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38) for co-writing this chapter with me. I highly recommend checking out her work. <3 Teamwork makes the dream work!
> 
> Drop a kudos if you like! And comments are always appreciated! ^_^


	14. Caution, Meet Wind *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW!
> 
> **Chapter-Specific Tags:**  
_Voice Kink  
Hair Pulling  
Spanking  
Casual Sex  
Vaginal Sex  
Rough Sex_

“After you, m’lady,” the Captain whispered, hovering only inches from her face. She breathed in the musky, masculine aroma of the man, exhaling a soft white cloud, which dissipated among the curls winding across his chest. So unlike Cullen’s scent… wait, why - no, she shouldn’t be thinking of _ him _ right now!

Rylen released his hold on the door handle behind her and they slipped inside. Entering to find the fireplace lit, she sighed in relief from the wave of warmth that washed over her and peeled off her coat, throwing it over the chair at the foot of the bed. Elowyn must have been here recently to stoke the fire, as it hadn’t yet faded to embers and still held a strong blaze. She’d have to remember to thank her friend, perhaps do something nice for her in return.

“I, um – would you like some wine? I believe I still have-”

He chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. “Nae. The only thing I want to taste right now is you.”

Her eyes widened and before she had time to react he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his arms. “Oh!” she whimpered, heart pounding out a rhythm in time to her rapidly spinning thoughts, “Rylen, I-”

“Look at me, lass,” he murmured.

With him sitting and her standing, they were finally at an equal height. Obeying the gentle request, she looked up and caught his intense azure gaze. His arms wrapped around the small of her back, holding her close between his legs.

“Tell me what ye want.”

“I - I want…”

She hesitated, grasping for the right words and finding none. Without thinking, her hands came up to cup his cheeks, rough in her small, smooth palms, and she pressed her lips to his. They tasted of the same whiskey lingering on her own tongue, mixed with something else, something altogether _ him_. It was an awkward kiss, close-mouthed and far too brief. Pulling away, she noted the surprise on his face… and the hunger. 

With nary a word, he grabbed the flesh of her bottom and squeezed, tugging her forward until her body was flush with his chest, and captured her mouth again – this time passionately. Heat, like a mage’s flame, burst within her and suddenly even this kiss was not enough. Her hands drifted from his face and wound into his soft, thick hair, desperate to touch him, to feel him.

Licking along her lower lip, his tongue pushed against her mouth for entry, which she granted eagerly. His tongue against hers, heat stroking heat. With a growl, his arms dipped beneath her thighs and lifted her to straddle his lap. It separated them just long enough for her to gasp and circle her arms around his shoulders before she bent her head for another kiss. Hips instinctively rolling, she panted against his lips - a pathetic, small sound escaping her as she couldn’t yet find the friction she so desired.

His hands slid back to her arse and massaged it with strong, thick fingers, holding her in place, and suddenly he bucked against her, right into the place she wanted. Pleasure shot through her, immediate and intense. She gasped. 

“Rylen,” she breathed as his plump lips marked a trail across her cheek and down to her throat. His fingers tangled in her hair, still bound by a leather tie, and tugged to bare more of her throat. With a gasp, she threw her head back and stared at the wooden beams above. Electricity rocketed through her veins, leaving a coil of unadulterated want in her gut and wetness pooling in her smallclothes.

“Please,” she begged, rolling her hips again, “say something.”

He chuckled teasingly, lips leaving her sensitive, tingling skin, “Y’alright there, lass?”

Elaria shuddered, her hands fisting in his jacket. Every syllable from his lips a caress in its own right, the desire to hear him speak, to hear every dirty, filthy word he could possibly utter, suddenly increased tenfold. 

“Mmhmm… More than alright.”

“Good. Although, if you faint on me, lass, I’ll have tae revive you,” Rylen mumbled as his tongue trailed along her elegant throat, accent thickened by the heady combination of whiskey and lust.

“Surely there are worse fates.” 

His hips jerked against hers in response and he growled, “Oh, aye, lass. Like going a second longer with you in these clothes. That is worse, by far.”

One of her hands left his back and dove toward his lap. She pulled back her hips just enough to slip it in the small space between their bodies and boldly pushed her lithe fingers against his length.

“I could say the same about you,” she whispered, rubbing him through his breeches. He let out a husky groan from deep within his chest and thrust against her hand, bouncing her slightly upward. By the Dales – the sound alone was intoxicating.

Though she hadn’t even seen him yet, it was obvious he was not a small man. She swallowed thickly, reminded that it had been several years since her last time. Not to mention that she’d never done this before with a shemlen. Not that it was… _forbidden_, exactly, but definitely frowned upon. The fleeting image of Keeper Deshanna’s disappointed glare flashed in her mind – so frequently turned upon her and Da’riel in her youth that it was an expression she’d likely never forget.

“You’re in your head again,” he rumbled, licking a line up to her earlobe. The sensitive flesh slipped between his teeth, drawing a hiss from her as a bolt of pleasure shot straight from her ear to her core. “And I intend to get you out of it.”

Ravenous, desperate to be satiated, she clawed the jacket from his shoulders. Threw it to the floor behind her and tugged his shirt out of his trousers, whining when he did not lift his arms fast enough. With a bark of laughter, he yanked the shirt over his head with one hand and tossed it across the room. 

Elaria hummed appreciatively, dragging her hands down his broad chest. He was a large man – not quite as heavy or burly as the Warden Blackwall, nor as lean as Commander Cullen, though why her mind was drawn to those comparisons, she knew not. She traced the tattoos that had been hiding beneath his clothing with small, slender fingers, freshly calloused from her recent training. Bold black lines to match the ones on his face, some thick and some thin, drawn in a pattern of both sharp, jagged angles and graceful curves across his muscular pectorals and arms. 

Familiar in a way, since Dalish also held the tradition of painting their skin, but foreign in its design. The shapes, the ink, so different from her vallaslin. Not many Dalish chose to paint their bodies in the way they did their faces. She hadn’t - her forehead and cheeks had been quite enough pain for her liking and proof of her status in the clan, but Da’riel had them on his arms and chest just like Rylen. She wondered, briefly, if the two men would get along. 

“Like what you see, lass?”

Elaria leaned forward to kiss the edge of the tattoo on his shoulder. “_Aye_,” she murmured.

Recapturing her lips with a lusty growl, he pulled her tight against his pelvis. She rolled her hips again, grinding down on his lap, her gasps and mewls disappearing with each breath onto his hot tongue. His questing fingers wandered under her shirt, blazing a trail along her taut stomach, skirting up her ribs to cup her breasts.

Chuckling under his breath, he pulled away from their kiss. “As I suspected. No breastband?”

“You ‘suspected’?” she breathed.

“Maker, lass. You cannae expect a man nae to notice these pert breasts of yours through this malinky wee tunic. Took all my honor to keep my eyes above your neck the entire night!”

She giggled, the flush upon her skin burning deeper. She’d never really thought about it that way, rarely worried about binding or covering her breasts for practical reasons, much less for sexual ones. After the Conclave, Elaria took whatever armor and clothing were given to her to make up for those she’d lost, but quickly became irritated with the unfamiliar and constrictive shemlen style. Thus, she’d forsworn breastbands and boots, sticking to simple leathers, loose, low-cut tunics and feet partly bare but for the wrapping of the arches as was her people's custom.

“What else did you notice about me?” she asked, curious.

He laughed, still squeezing her breasts. “You really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Your lips, for one,” he said, catching her off guard with another searing kiss that ended far too soon. “But honestly, lass – everything. You’re one of a kind; I knew it from the moment I saw ye.”

She hadn’t expected that. “Really? You think so?”

“Of course.”

Emboldened by his honesty and passionate caresses, she whispered, “I noticed you too…”

“Aye?” he said, rolling her sensitive buds between sword-roughened fingers. “And what _ precisely _did you notice about me?”

“Mmm… So many things, _Captain_. Your kind eyes, your horribly mischievous smirk,” she giggled. “And of course, your voice.”

“I had a feeling you liked the accent.” Grinning, he rocked his hips, rubbing her through their clothes. “What else?”

“Rylen…” she moaned.

He paused the movement and rumbled, “I said – _ what else_?”

“T–there was a moment when I touched your leg… I… wanted to…”

He rewarded her by firmly pinching both tender nipples, and began thrusting once more against her aching center. If he kept this up, she might come before getting her clothes off!

“Aye? What did you _ really _ want to touch, _ Elaria_?” 

She moaned her pleasure instead of answering and one hand retreated from her breast, despite her whine of protest, to tangle in her silvery hair again. He pulled her head back and leaned close to her ear.

“Say it, lass. I want to hear you say it.”

“Your cock,” she gasped, voice even huskier than usual. “I wanted to touch your cock, Rylen.”

His mouth latched onto the junction of her throat and shoulder, suckling hard upon the sensitive nerves beneath her skin as their bodies rubbed desperately against one another and she cried out, nails clawing his back. When he finally released her, they were both panting and breathless.

“Fuck, you’re drivin’ me batty,” he groaned.

Elaria couldn’t take it any longer - body _ vibrating _with need, she tore desperately at the laces of his trousers. Had to touch him, feel him, had to…

Slip her hand within and wrap her fingers around him, girth preventing them from fully touching, and she moaned, urgent and _wanting_ and _desperate_. He unleashed a jumbled series of curses and bucked into her fist, the hand in her hair and the one on her breast falling to grope her backside again.

She pumped his length, drawing the foreskin back from the shining head, reveling in the noises of pleasure he made at her ministrations. Gaining confidence, she slid her thumb over the slit to smear the beads of precome gathered there. Marked a trail with her lips along his neck, up his jaw, before reclaiming his mouth. The taste of him intoxicating, musky, exquisite. It didn’t take long before he’d had enough of her teasing. 

Cupping her face with rugged hands, he forced her away, sucking in a deep breath. “Tell me you want this, lass. I’ll go no further till I ken it’s really you that wants me, and nae the whiskey.”

Still stroking him, she stared into his eyes, solely a thin blue line encircling the large black pupils. Yes. Yes, she wanted this. Wanted him. _Needed_ him. 

Nodding, she rasped, “I do want you, Rylen.”–she glanced away–“Somehow, I feel I don't have to pretend with you or be polite. Like I'm a normal woman, not just the 'Herald of Andraste', and it’s okay for me to feel good. To feel pleasure. To _want_ it, even. And I haven’t felt that way in so long…”

“I understand, lass.” With a finger under her chin, he turned her gaze back to his. “And I’m honored tae be the one tae make you feel good again.” 

His next kiss was full of longing, desire, and promise. Tears came unbidden to her eyes from the intimacy, the purity of it, to blur her vision. Tears which lingered, but did not fall.

Rylen picked her up by the waist then and deposited her feet on the floor. Reached for her trousers, and upon seeing her nod of consent, ripped open the laces. Pulled the leathers past her arse and groaned at the sight of the dark, springy patch of curls at the apex of her thighs. She bent down, tugging the hem at her ankles until her legs were freed, and stood before him completely bare from the waist down.

“Come here.”

A shiver crept up her spine at the authoritative tone. Coupled with his whiskey-laced brogue, it stoked a need within her she’d felt only hints of before - a need for that luxurious sound to iterate her every desire. She stepped forward to stand between his legs again, his cock still standing at attention. He reached out to slide one long finger along her slit and she gasped as he grazed her clitoris, already swollen and aching for stimulation. 

“So wet. So ready for me,” he growled, bringing that finger to his lips. 

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him sucking her nectar from his skin. Distracted, she failed to register his other hand lashing out until both hearing and feeling the resounding _smack_ against her bare bottom.

“Ah!” she yelped, jumping forward. 

It wasn’t near hard enough to hurt, but definitely stung a little. And surprisingly, she didn’t hate it. No, rather than upsetting, it was… exhilarating. He then massaged the area, tenderly soothing the pinkened flesh. 

Draping her arms over his shoulders, she straddled his lap once more and rocked forward to rub her slick heat along his shaft. “Please… do that again,” she whispered.

“Mmm, I was right about you, lass – you’re trouble.” 

She laughed huskily. “Is that a good thing?”

“Very, very good,” he said, and slapped her other buttock, quickly repeating the soothing caresses to ease the mild sting. Moving his arm between them, he grabbed his cock. There was no more question of her intentions, or his.

Heart pounding, face burning not with embarrassment but pure, unadulterated _ desire _, she raised herself up and guided him to her entrance. Eased down slowly, gasping as he breached her. Wet as she was, he slid into her easily. The pain and discomfort from the stretch quickly gave way to sensations of fullness and bliss as she lowered herself, finally taking him to the hilt.

“Fuuuuck. So tight,” he groaned. 

She clung to him, her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent now laced with sweat and her sex. “Rylen… Rylen, please…”

With his hands tightly gripping her waist, he bucked upward and began bouncing her in his lap, seeking a rhythm comfortable for them both. Nails digging into his back, Elaria savored every grunt expelled from the man beneath and within her, panting and gasping into the crook of his neck. But she needed _more_.

“Say… something...”

Much to her dismay, he slowed and pulled back to look at her. “What?”

“Don’t stop!” she said, scowling half-heartedly. “Just... talk. _Please_?”

He laughed, a thick and hearty sound resonating from deep within his throat. “What d’you want me to say, lass? You want me tae tell you how hard ‘twas tae keep from fucking you senseless on the tavern table while everyone watched?”

Desperately rolling her hips, she cried, “Yes! Anything, please…”

“You like that, huh, lass?” He thrust once, hard. “Like it when I talk to you? When I tell you how good you feel on my cock?”

Creators, this man! And that _ voice _, that low honey-covered baritone, the mere hint of gravel at its edge, an edge that cut her straight to the core. She keened pitifully, and in an effort to stifle the sound, pressed her mouth against his shoulder. Licked and suckled his skin, the salt of sweat and spice of his cologne mingling with the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat on her tongue. On a whim, she bit down. With a sharp intake of breath that evolved into a throaty groan, he stood - arms under her thighs, cock still within her - and crossed the room to set her on the table. 

“I’m going tae fuck you on every surface in this room, lass,” he growled.

Hooking her ankles behind his firm arse, she relaxed her jaw and tongued the mark she’d left before removing her arms from his neck. As he started thrusting again, she scrambled for purchase on the wooden surface beneath her, finding and grabbing one corner. Pulled him tight with her thighs, forcing him deeper. His hands clamped on her hip bones, giving him leverage as he rutted into her harder, faster. 

“Mmm, you love the way my cock feels, dinnae you? Love the way I fuck you?”

“Yes, vin!”

Table legs scraped the floor with their movement, wood banging on wood as it slammed into the wall with each thrust. The wine bottle perched there tipped over, rolled, and bounced on the floor – but the thick, dark green glass thankfully did not break. She tuned out the clatter of various items as they fell to join it, her mind completely and utterly occupied by the feeling of him moving inside her, dragging along her tight inner walls.

“Right there, right there, please! Sathan!” she keened, pressure building low and deep.

“Shh, lass. You’ll have… tae be quiet… lest you want… all of Haven… tae hear you,” he said in between grunts and thrusts.

Heat raged within her, spreading like wildfire to her extremities, sweat dripping down her forehead and matting her hair. With a low growl, Rylen yanked on her hair again and she gasped, head back, throat exposed to his waiting mouth. He doubled over to suck hard on her neck, just below her ear, the rub of his pelvis against her clit and the sensation of his cock hitting that spot deep within making her toes curl. Pain, pleasure, building and rising and cresting and she grasped at the edge of oblivion, desperate to hold on and yet wanting, needing to topple over it. She bit her lip, struggling to stay silent.

“Come for me, lass.”

And she did, clenching hard around him, stone enveloped in velvet, hot and covered with her essence. His hand immediately clamped down on her mouth to smother her wail, the squelching wetness of their union resonating within the small cabin and bouncing off the rough wooden walls to crash against her ears. 

Suddenly boneless, she whimpered and slumped into his waiting arms and he held her close to his sweat-slicked chest. He paused, letting her catch her breath, but still hard and trembling with the weight of his own need.

“I – I’m sorry," she gasped and then let out a breathless giggle. "It's been a long time.”

“Dinnae apologize,” he whispered, and bent to take her lips. It was a sweeter kiss this time. Tender and careful. She throbbed and pulsed around him, the remnants of her climax washing over her still. “I’m nae done with you yet.”

Rylen grabbed her arms and draped them around his neck, telling her to hold on. With that, he picked her up again. Held her firm, arms under her thighs, her ankles still locked behind him though with less strength than before. Laid her gently on the scarlet rug before the fire, its welcoming warmth caressing her gooseflesh-riddled skin.

When he withdrew from her, she opened her mouth to protest and he shushed her with a finger on her lips and kindness in his eyes. Slowly, intimately, he peeled the sweat-soaked tunic from her, pulled it up and over her head so that now, finally, she was completely bared to his gaze.

“Maker, you are… you are _ perfection_.” He knelt down with arms on either side of her, palms flat against the floor. Lowered himself, muscles straining with the weight but no sign of discomfort upon his face, to place a kiss upon each breast. “Such a bonny lass,” he whispered.

“More,” she whined, arching toward his touch.

Rylen eagerly complied. Shifted his position so that he was propped up on his elbows, his forearms snaking beneath her arms and under her shoulders to lift her chest to him. Laved one nipple with his tongue, circling first before drawing it into his mouth and suckling the sensitive point. 

He released it, swollen and pink, with a lurid, wet “_pop_!” to do the same to the opposite breast. Writhing, panting, the ache in her core returned with vigor and her hips bucked upward, desperately seeking friction, fulfillment. He chuckled, mouth still full of her flesh, the sound vibrating through the fatty tissue and striking a cord within. 

Elaria pushed him roughly away and he rolled to the side to lean on one elbow with a devilishly smug grin playing on his lips. The bastard. She shoved him again, until he lay on his back. Still smirking, he put both arms beneath his head, ready to wait and watch for whatever she had planned. She crawled over to kneel at his feet, licking her lips at the sight of the massive erection just barely poking out of his breeches to lay against his belly, the evidence of their sex staining the crotch of his pants.

She unlaced his boots, one at a time, her fingers shaking and fumbling with her eagerness. Pulled them off and tossed them toward the foot of the bed a few feet away. Crawled over his prone form, and with a sharp tug on his belt with both hands, she dragged the leather breeches down his long legs. Finally free of the offending clothing, the man sighed, stretching slightly, and spread his legs to surround her. 

The confidence with which he did so thoroughly arousing, and his pride all the more obvious by the twitch of his cock, ready and waiting for her touch. She slid her hands up his legs, caressing the dark but sparse hair covering them, feeling the flex of his large, strong muscled thighs under her lithe, slender fingers. Dug her nails briefly into the flesh, not enough to hurt, but to draw a hiss from the man watching her, firelight dancing in his eyes. Eyes once azure, now black with desire, fixed intently upon her. 

She drank in the view of his deeply tanned skin, the black ink winding around his chest and arms in swirling, random patterns. The fine sheen of sweat painting him with an unearthly glow in the dim, flickering light. A truly gorgeous man, all strength and stone – with broad chest and shoulders, lean, muscular stomach with _just_ enough fat on it to be healthy. Narrow hips, thick, firm backside, and thighs like tree trunks. Fen'harel take her - were she not already dripping wet, she definitely would be from the sight of him alone.

Rising, she straddled his abdomen, sat, and bent to claim his lips. They parted instantly, allowing her tongue entrance, and they danced together, licking and sucking, their moans disappearing into each other’s mouths. She rocked against his belly, sliding her wetness over his skin, the trail of hair that led to his groin tickling her pearl with every movement. She reached behind herself to grasp his neglected cock and he groaned, hips rising to meet her fist. 

“Lass, I dinnae think you want tae ken the consequences of teasing me,” he said, tone playfully growly, his luxurious brogue thick with lust. She sat up and stroked his length, the head rubbing her backside. 

She laughed brightly. “Oh? And what if I do?”

Fast as lightning, his hands wrapped around her waist. Lifted her, squealing like a child, from his body and set her down on her knees beside him. Before she could blink he was positioned behind her – as quickly as if they were engaging in battle and he, vying for dominance against an opponent. He pushed her down so fast she barely had time to register what he wanted her to do. She braced herself, palms flat on the floor, back arched, arse in the air, breathless with anticipation. 

_Thwack_!

She cried out, forgetting to cover the sound. Much harder than before, the pain was immediate and biting. It stung, forming pin-pricks of light behind her eyes even as he kneaded the flesh to soothe it. But more than shock of the action, it was the pain itself that aroused her. It was nothing like the sort she felt when injured in battle. Not unpleasant, not disturbing, nothing to cause her fear. This was something entirely different, something new and tantalizing and addictive.

“You want it rough, aye?” he said, bending down to press himself against her back, his cock just grazing the space between her legs. 

“Y-yes.”

He slapped her other cheek and she clamped her lips shut to hold the keen that threatened to burst forth. Lifting her head, she gazed toward the stars obscured by the still-foreign ceiling above. Arched her back even more to brace herself against the impact. She rocked into him, using her body to tell him what she now sought.

Rylen barked out a laugh and squeezed her arse in both palms, letting her rock back and forth, his cock trapped between her thighs. “You drive a man to madness, lass. Always running around Haven, taunting me in those Maker-damned tight leathers o’ yours.”

She glanced over her shoulder and, smirking, wiggled her bottom. That was all the invitation he required, and with one smooth thrust he buried himself in her sheathe. Grunted as he bottomed out, and held still for but a moment before he began fucking her in earnest. Snapping his hips, hard and fast, the slap of slick, wet flesh on flesh drowning out the heavy drum of her heartbeat.

“Pala em elvar’el!” she cried.

With fingers digging into her hips he lifted himself up, positioned above her, raising her hips so she was suddenly on her feet. Legs spread, knees locking, head down, hands bracing against the floor. And Creators, fuck, at this angle he slammed against the entrance of her womb. Her hands fisted into the red wool rug and with no way to cover her mouth she bit down, hard, on her lip, tasting copper.

Thrusting down, he pounded into her, hips snapping against the meaty flesh of her arse. All sense, all reason left her – so much so that whatever filthy things he growled quietly from above were nigh unintelligible. She uttered a stifled cry with each thrust. Down, and in. Down, and in. One hand left her hip to reach for her cunt, sliding roughly against the bundle of nerves there. And then, pressure. Glorious pressure. The base of his palm pressing against her mons, holding her tight, middle finger working her swollen pearl. She met his thrusts, trapped – blissfully trapped – between his hand and his cock. 

No longer able to contain herself, she panted desperately, “Yes… vin… tamahn… mith’ar!”

“Maker…” he growled, “I can’t… Going to... _ fuck _!”

A burst of Elvhen, either curses or pleas - she hadn’t the presence of mind to tell the difference - erupted from her mouth again as she tumbled into the abyss nearly on the tips of her fingers and toes. Her cunt tightening, pulsing, she shuddered violently through her orgasm. As she rode out her pleasure he tensed behind her, thrusts more erratic now. He was close, had probably been holding out for her. A warmth spread through her chest at the thought, mind dulled and slightly fuzzy as the sudden urge to curl up on the rug like a cat washed over her.

Instead, she rocked back and up, bouncing her arse against him and clenched her inner muscles, milking away whatever resolve he had left to hold back.

“Rylen…” she moaned.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Pulling out, he stroked himself to completion, streaking her back with his hot spend. She glanced over her shoulder, arse still in the air, and offered a lazy smile. 

“Hold on,” he panted, grinning down at her. “I’ll clean you up. Just need a moment to breathe.”

“Do hurry. I may be limber, but this position is quite exhausting,” she chuckled, hanging her head.

Chortling, he grabbed his shirt from where they’d tossed it, gently removed all evidence of his mess from her, and helped her to stand before cleaning himself. She walked, rather bow-legged and awkwardly, to the bed and threw herself upon it, face-down, with a contented sigh.

The mattress bowed and dipped as he climbed over her to lay on the side by the wall. She lifted her head and peered over at the man. On his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a smirk on his full lips. He smelled like whiskey, musk and sex, and so did she. And for some reason, which she couldn’t really blame on the alcohol anymore - their activities having sobered her - she began to giggle.

Rylen glanced at her, his smirk blooming into a toothy grin when she burst into outright laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“I don’t – I can’t believe we…” She struggled for the words, tears streaming down her face from the force of her laughter. “I mean, the sky is torn open, and here we are… doing _ this _.”

“Aye,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow to lean over her. Her breath caught at the sudden intensity in his eyes, filled with mirth and yet… something else, too. Something more. Tucking one stray tendril of hair behind her ear, his voice softened. “But it’s good to have something more to live for, amidst all this madness. People need a reason to wake up and fight during the best of times. Now, we need it even more.”

Biting her lower lip, she broke his gaze and rolled onto her side to snuggle against his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. Draped her arm around his waist, savoring the warmth of him, the strength of his arms as they enveloped her and held her close. 

“Thank you, Rylen,” she whispered into the soft curls on his chest. "You're a good man." And that night, for the first time in months, she drifted easily into a dreamless, peaceful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcome! Hope you enjoyed ^_^
> 
> Many thanks to my waifu [Lostinfantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38/works) for beta reading this for me!
> 
> Elvish language translations:  
Pala em elvar’el! - Fuck me harder!  
tamahn - there  
vin - yes  
mith'ar - I am near (contextually, here, meaning "I'm close")  
sathan - please


	15. Hand to Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter-Specific Tags**   
_Addiction/Withdrawal_   
_Depression_

They were nearing the end of their two-hour mark; both sweating through their tunics, panting heavily, but neither called for a break. No weapons for the latter half of their training today, and no armor. Just the two of them, one on one, hand to hand.

Cullen had missed this in the weeks she’d spent traveling to and from the Storm Coast. What had become the highlight of his days prior to that, suddenly gone, leaving him to his usual habits. An endless cycle of too much work, too little sleep, frequent headaches and insatiable cravings. The all-encompassing desire to quench that which he dare not; that sick need deep within like a seed slowly sprouting, snaking out its tendrils to grasp at every nerve, every thought, every memory.

But now, with adrenaline exploding through his veins, sweat trickling down his back, body sore and muscles protesting, he grinned. Threw back his head and laughed in the middle of a parry - because in this moment, none of that mattered. All that did was the woman in front of him, running at him, diving in for a leg sweep, laughing musically as he spun away. 

It was intimate, the way they released and shared their true selves through the physicality of combat. Pure, harmonious. Untainted by judgment, insecurity, or watchful eyes. A time for them, and them alone.

Cullen came at her and she ducked low, gracefully spinning behind him. He struck out his foot and nearly caught her ankle, but she pulled her leg up just in time to leap backward. Lunging to the left, Elaria delivered a swift shin-kick to the outside of his thigh but he grabbed her leg and pulled her in, winding his other arm around her and holding her flush with his body.

She wrapped her leg around him, clenched muscles gripping his hip and buttock. Used that leverage to flip her upper body back and downward, then thrust away, releasing her grip. The unexpected move pushed him backward, forced him to release his hold on her leg. She landed on her hands and pushed off the ground, then sprang to her feet with ease and turned away, glancing over her shoulder at him with a coy smirk.

“You minx.” He laughed, flashing her a lopsided grin. She was so small, so fragile, and yet so quick and strong. Maker, she was-

“I’m waiting,” she said, crooking one slender finger in a come-hither motion. 

Cullen darted forward again. She raised her forearm to block his blow and he spun to her rear. When she pivoted to catch him with an elbow, he caught her in a steadfast embrace. Held her tight, back to chest, body folded in around hers. 

They hadn’t practiced this hold many times prior, and it showed in her hesitancy. Her small stature made escape difficult, and for a moment, he feared he might hurt her and was tempted to relax. But their enemies would not go easy, would not coddle her. So he could not either.

“What do you do now, Herald?” he whispered, exhaling a shaky breath.

“You know how I hate that title.”

He smirked, though she couldn’t see it. “Sorry. _ Elaria _\- how do you break the hold?”

She stilled a brief moment before her foot came down hard on the top of his, layers of hardened leather over a steel plate at the tip thankfully protecting it. Even so, the pain was enough to make him hiss. He doubled over, pulling her in tighter, the hard breath that rushed from his lungs ruffling the silvery strands fraying from the bun atop her head.

“Fenedhis!" she huffed. "That was supposed to work!” She moved again, the small of her back sliding against the front of his breeches. _ Maker’s breath_. He couldn’t keep this up for long if she continued that.

“It would… on an opponent without armored boots. What else can you do?”

Squirming, she emitted a high-pitched whine. “I can’t move, you arse.”

He chuckled. “Remember, your body is your weapon. So what do you do?”

Suddenly, she pitched herself forward and down. Thrown off-balance, he stumbled a step. She wiggled one arm free and caught him in the kidney with her elbow, instantly sliding from his grasp and bolting away.

The chase was on. He was faster without his bulky armor, and had much longer legs, but the lithe elvhen hunter still had the advantage. Sprinting through the trees, she headed away from the cabin, her feet swift and gait graceful. Cullen dodged and wove around the tall, spindly trunks, eyes trained on her, when she disappeared with a puff of smoke. 

He laughed. Though at this point they were playing, toying with each other more than training, her cleverness and stealth might one day save her life.

Cullen slowed his pace to search the snow for tracks. Not finding any hint of her whereabouts, he looked to the branches above. The snap of a twig resounded behind him, a light crunch against the snow. Whirling, he caught only a blur of movement before something barreled into him, forcing the air from his lungs.

_ THUD _

He hit the ground startled and breathless, with pressure against his chest, a sharp pain, and weight pushing him down into the snow-laden forest bed. Rocks and twigs dug into his back, jagged and angular, almost enough so to tear through the fabric of his shirt. Maybe even pierce his skin, had the person atop him been heavier.

Gasping like a landed fish, he stared at the elf sitting above him, fingers encircling his wrists, a wicked glint in her eyes. One of both mischief and merriment, the pleasure of knowing she’d bested him in combat. In her mind, she’d won. He’d let her gloat… for now.

“Got you!” she panted, rosy lips spread into a gleeful grin. Her hair jutted wildly from its tie, a few strands dangling around her cheeks in untamed curls and waves. How long would it be, down and free? A quick yank, and he could easily find out, here and now.

Her tunic, grey like clouds before a storm, hung down from her pale, glistening chest. One glance, and he’d see the unbound breasts that had been torturing him all morning, but he forced his eyes away. A gentleman. Didn’t. Stare. 

Andraste preserve him, but _he wanted to_.

Leaning forward, she whispered, “It seems I’ve won this time, _ Commander_.” Her grin widened considerably.

Grimacing, he shifted beneath her, seeking relief from the pressure, and resisted the urge to grab the strong thighs gripping his torso to pry her knees away. She couldn’t weigh more than eight stone soaking wet; regardless, the position and pressure was enough to be uncomfortable.

“Oh…” She frowned. “Am I hurting you?” Wiggling her bottom further down past his belt, she came dangerously close to an area she did not need to be right at this moment. An area slowly filling with blood, and not from any injury. Maker’s breath, what did he do to deserve this torture?

“Don’t!”

Surprised, she released his wrists. Her hands fell upon his chest, their skin separated only by thin, wet linen. Beneath her slender fingers, his heart raced. A rapidly increasing _da-dum_, _ da-dum_, _ da-dum_, drowned out only by the heaviness of their breaths.

“Don’t… what?” she said, arching one eyebrow. She shifted on his lap, uncertainty briefly flickering over her face.

“Ela-” he warned again, grabbing her arms.

Despite all his usual self-control, Cullen struggled to will away his arousal at the fact that the woman constantly plaguing his thoughts was now on top of him. Did she know what she was doing? The elf was infuriatingly flirtatious sometimes, but it was difficult to tell if it was intentional, or simply part of her natural charisma. 

Although they had sparred numerous times before, this was the most _intimate _they’d ever been. And as much as he wanted her to get off, to remain unaware of his desire, a much larger part of him longed for relief. For her to understand, and for him to see how she felt. At best, she would reciprocate. At worst, reject him. But anything had to be better than this limbo.

Maybe… maybe he should show her. Tell her. What did he stand to lose? Well, his dignity, perhaps. Not that it was of much value anymore. After everything he had been through, all he had done.

“Alright, alright,” she said, her grin returning. “Point for me though, right? About time! Though I feel confident saying I’d have bested you long ago if I were using my bow.”

Cullen chuckled. “Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of this training?”

“Can’t just let me have this, can you?” Her lips pursed, but the playfulness in her eyes remained.

With a grunt of effort, he rolled, flipping Elaria onto her back beneath him. He pinned her arms to the ground and smirked victoriously. “Where would be the fun in that?”

She stared defiantly, struggling against his fierce grip. He settled more of his weight between her spread legs, the sheer bulk of his muscle more than enough to keep her in place even without the hold he had on her wrists.

“Cheeky bastard,” she said, pouting.

“_I’m _ cheeky?” He laughed. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

Without warning, she wrapped her slender legs around his waist and squeezed. Surprised, Cullen let go and nearly crushed her before catching himself, forearms in the snow on either side of her head. Her chest pressed against his as it rose and fell, warm breath ghosting across his damp skin. Their bodies molded together perfectly, as though made for one another. He hovered, inches from her face, and watched as she wet her lips.

If his pulse wasn’t racing before, it certainly was now.

“Cullen…” she whispered, reaching out with one hand.

Tentative fingertips traced over his cheek, sending a shiver down his spine and a flush into his skin. Was this it? The moment he’d been waiting for? Yearning for, all this time? His mind said _ no, you’re reading too much into it_, but his heart screamed _yes, kiss her!_

Cullen studied her expression. Tried to rationalize, to find some sign that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her pink lips were open and inviting, eyes beautiful and pleading. But Maker, he was so bad at this! If she rejected him, he risked losing her completely. But if she didn’t… she’d make him the happiest man alive.

_ Fuck it. _

He dipped his head, just a fraction, and her eyelids fluttered shut. The crisp mountain wind whipped through the trees, sending tiny crystals of ice over them both, soothing to skin that burned from both exertion and want. Trembling with anticipation, he inched closer, almost close enough to taste-

“Commander!”

_No._

Cullen’s head snapped up. A scout stood several yards away, dumbfounded. His doe-like eyes were wide as they flicked between him and the Herald. The fool said nothing whilst fidgeting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“What!” Cullen growled, lifting himself up on his palms.

“I- uh- apologies, Ser! Nightingale, er, Lady Leliana, has requested your presence!”

“Ugh, alright. Tell her I will be there as soon as I can.” He waited for him to leave, but the scout continued to stand in place and stare. “_Now_.” The young man jumped and ran like a scared fennec. Cullen shook his head and sighed, scrubbing one hand over his stubble-roughened jaw.

Of all times for her to call for him - it _had _to be now. 

The clearing of a throat below brought him back to the present. He was still on top of Elaria, her usually pale face now bright red. Startled, he leapt up and helped her to her feet.

“Well, that was…” She met his eyes for a fleeting moment before looking sheepishly away and releasing his hand.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered.

She glanced up, one eyebrow cocked. “For?”

He rubbed his neck, flustered. Must she really make him say it? Sorry for almost kissing her? Sorry for getting them caught in such a precarious position? Sorry for thinking about her all the time, dreaming about her, touching- no, _ definitely _not that. _ Never tell her that_.

“Nevermind." Elaria sighed, crossed her arms, and looked down at her bare feet. "We should get back.”

~

Cullen stopped outside of the command tent with Elaria in tow and signaled to Rylen, who stood at the fore of the yard with Lieutenant Danvers, looking over a report. He saluted back and handed off the parchment before jogging toward him, grinning broadly.

“Commander.” Rylen nodded, then shifted closer to the elvhen woman beside him. “_Elaria_.”

He swore the man’s voice lowered an octave, and his eyebrows rose at the informal address. But they shot up even further when he casually draped an arm around the petite elf’s shoulders and bent to whisper something in her ear. A blush broke out over her cheeks and she slapped Rylen’s armored chest, to which the tall Starkhavener responded with a robust chortle.

_ What in Andraste’s name? _

They had never been so… _ familiar _with one another. Or had he simply not been paying attention? He replayed scenes of his spar with Elaria, wondering if he’d read too much into her body language, because she was on a different level of _comfortable _with his second. 

They’d had their share of private moments in the past, and at least on his end, he thought their friendship had been flourishing, developing into something… deeper. But publicly, they always behaved formally. Though, to his recollection, that _had _been by _his _request. 

“Commander? Did you hear me, Ser?”

He shook his head to clear it. Rylen was speaking to him and he hadn’t heard a single word. “Hmm?”

“Looks like this one’s knocked a marble or two loose during your spar!” Rylen chuckled and gave Elaria a playful squeeze. “She’s a right spitfire, aye? As I was saying, Commander; this bunch is greener than the hills of my homeland, but we’ll make do. With enough training, they should shape up nicely. Just can’t let ‘em run around camp with their blades unsheathed for the time being!”

Elaria squinted up at Rylen with a mock scowl, then looked at Cullen and studied him curiously. “Are you alright, Commander? I suppose I did hit you a bit hard earlier...”

“What?" He glanced away. "Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just… a headache. My apologies, Herald, but I must return to my duties. Captain Rylen, you know where I will be if any reports need my attention.”

“Ser.” 

Cullen gave a curt bow, avoiding their eyes, and breezed into the tent. Clenching his fists, he steadied himself, trying to put the tempting images of his impassioned moment with the woman, and the flutters of want they stirred within him, aside. 

He'd been so sure that something special, a spark, existed between them. The way she held his hand that first night, or dozed in his arms on the dock by the lake. The way she met his gaze each time they were alone. The way his name tumbled past her lips, soft and breathy… It all resembled the same contentment he felt with her. The same desire. 

Or so he thought. 

_ Damned fool. Always wishing for things you can’t have. _

Things that would never be. Not for a broken ex-Templar with a lyrium addiction, traumatic past, and the weight of so much guilt upon his shoulders. Not for a man who’d never known any meaningful, lasting connection with another person, much less a woman. 

Confirming his fears, Elaria’s lilting voice whispered through the canvas walls as her conversation with Rylen continued outside.

“So, I’ll see you later?”

He laughed low and deep. “Oh, we’ll be doing more than seein’ each other, lass. I can guarantee ye that.”

Cullen’s nails bit half-moons into his palms through the thick leather gloves and he ground his teeth, the brutal sting of jealousy and betrayal burning like magefire in his chest. His friend. His _closest _friend. 

“Looking forward to it, _Rylen_.” 

Her giddy response knocked the wind from him, and the world tilted on its axis as their footsteps faded. Reeling, he stumbled toward the makeshift desk and gripped its edge, sucking desperate lungfuls of air. Just as his heart was wrenching in two, a splitting pain tore through his head. That all-too-familiar ache, the unquenchable pull of the song he both loved and despised and the lull of ignorant bliss he knew accompanied it. 

Freedom… What a joke. The only time he’d felt truly free from lyrium’s grasp was what little he spent with her. The hope she instilled, the comfort she provided, and the light she brought into his heart in the short time they’d known each other gave him happiness he hadn’t felt in _years_. 

Alas, he had missed his chance. If only he’d made his feelings known sooner… or even understood them himself.

Instead, Rylen would be keeping her bed warm. Purring sweet nothings in that damnable accent women loved, caressing her ethereal skin, kissing her tempting lips, making her cry out with pleasure well into the night... 

Little things began falling into place. Elaria’s lighthearted banter and bolstered confidence that he'd assumed were due to her training. But the idea that her flirtations and sultry smiles were reserved for only him was all in his head. Clearly, she was not as innocent as he'd imagined. 

Not to mention Rylen strutting around camp like the cat that caught the canary over the last few weeks. This thing between them, whether a casual dalliance or something more, had clearly been going on for a while and he’d been none the wiser. Completely oblivious. 

Yet he couldn’t hate them. He had no right, besides. Elaria was a free woman, and Rylen a good man. Cullen hadn’t told him how he felt about her, so how could he possibly blame him? Elaria was intelligent, spirited, determined. Charming and beautiful. Who wouldn't adore her?

And she could be with anyone she wanted. She chose someone who would care for her, treat her with respect, give her their devotion. Someone… someone whole. Unbroken. 

Not like him.

Someone _better_.

It was a bloody good thing Cullen hadn’t kissed her as he warred with indecision earlier that morning. What a mess that would have been. The scene played out again in his mind, this time marred by pity in her gorgeous eyes and regret in her voice as she let him down gently. He could imagine few things worse than this, but Maker, that would definitely be one of them. 

The last thing he needed more of in his life was pity. Guilt. _ Regret_.

If only he could keep the sharp pang of remorse over his inaction, his mistake, from haunting him. Easier said than done. He growled and punched the desk, sending pain shooting up through his knuckles and already-sore arm.

He needed to act. Needed to move, keep his mind and body occupied, distracted. Leliana could wait a bit longer. Right now, he needed to _fight_. 

Cullen stalked out of the tent and headed determinedly toward the training recruits, barking out a sharp order to form up. Damn tomorrow. Today, he would turn his emotional torment into physical pain. He’d train, and spar, and push until he could no longer. Because what was he but a warrior? What good was he off the battlefield? He had nothing else.

The Commander drew his sword and faced the men. “Who’s first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork is by the lovely Schoute! Check out her work on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schoute/works) and [Tumblr!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to receive updates for my works, please [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/profile)! 
> 
> Have questions or comments? Want to chat about DA or writing? Find me on [Tumblr](https://kittimau.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kittimau1)! 😊❤


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